


You Should See Me In A Crown

by luulapants



Series: Steter Modern Royalty AU [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Best Friends to Lovers, Engagement, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Modern Royalty, POV Peter Hale, Paparazzi, Press and Tabloids, Prince Peter Hale, Royal Hales, Weddings, this is pure uncut sappiness and I will not apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:26:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luulapants/pseuds/luulapants
Summary: Peter spent his whole life following the rules of werewolf royal society. Then he befriended the free-spirited Stiles Stilinski, and suddenly he was a walking tabloid scandal.Based on the Prince Harry & Meghan Markle royal family exodus. This follows Peter and Stiles through their friendship, relationship, wedding, family building, and the decision to get the HELL out of the toxic world of royalty.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Steter Modern Royalty AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886839
Comments: 98
Kudos: 790





	1. The Coming Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shey/gifts).



> Prompted by [Shey](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/) on tumblr:
> 
> ”Me reading the Prince Harry-Meghan Markel royal family drama:  
> Wait… I think I read this fic already. (Starts scrolling through my AO3 history)  
> #random #royalty au #someone write me a steter fic #reading the news before coffee”
> 
> ...and then this all just got very out of hand and turned into a 6 chapter saga of fluff. I have no self-control.

**September 2014**

Over the buzzing of his razor, Peter could just hear the soft knock that sounded on the bedroom door, followed by Stiles calling, “Come in!”

In the mirror, through the crack in the bathroom door, he saw the maid, Mrs. Larson, wheel in a tray of tea and, presumably, breakfast sandwiches or something of the sort. “How are you this morning, Master Stilinski?” she asked, a bit stiffly. Sixth months in, and the staff still didn’t know what to make of the barely-legal human suddenly lounging about like he owned the place.

“Peachy,” Stiles replied blithely, though Peter knew he was nursing a hangover that would have put a lesser man in the ground. “You can just leave the cart. He’s still primping, so who knows when he’ll actually get to his tea. Oh, hey, is that the paper?”

Peter heard Mrs. Larson leave as he patted on his aftershave. Nudging the bathroom door open the rest of the way, he saw Stiles, draped over a five thousand dollar leather settee like it was an old sofa in a frat house. He had one gangly leg slung over the back, the other stretched out on the floor. He hadn’t gotten dressed yet, still in nothing but a pair of black briefs and the utterly obscene red leather crop top he’d worn out the night before. Peter couldn’t imagine it had been comfortable to sleep in.

He regretted missing the look on Mrs. Larson’s face when she saw the state of him.

“Primping?” Peter echoed with a fond smile.

Stiles had the newspaper propped up on his chest. He looked over, and his eyes dragged shamelessly over Peter’s bare chest, down to the towel knotted at his waist, then back up to his face. “Primping,” Stiles affirmed.

“Did you find it yet?” Peter asked, gesturing to the paper. He walked over to stand behind Stiles so he could read along.

“Nope. Was just looking for it.” He started to flip through the sections haphazardly. “Op-Ed, Business, Business, Sports… ah! Society.” There, at the top of the society section, was a picture of Peter, a clip from the video interview he’d done yesterday. The top of the section read ‘Continued from Page 3.’ “Oh, shit, you made the big time,” Stiles muttered, quickly flipping back to the front sections.

_**Prince Peter Comes Out, Shocks The Nation** _

“Shocks the nation?” Stiles snorted, tapping his fingers against the headline. “Seriously, who is shocked by this? Do they know anything about you?”

Peter huffed and headed over to his closet. “I’m not that obvious,” he protested.

“You own a vineyard,” Stiles said.

“Plenty of straight people own vineyards.” Peter stepped into the closet, but left the door open so they could keep talking. He frowned thoughtfully at the shirts hanging just inside the door.

“You own _paisley pants_.”

Peter poked his head out of the closet. “You promised you wouldn’t bring those up again,” he snapped.

“You have an entire section of your closet dedicated to vests!”

Peter sighed and went back to staring down his wardrobe. “Yes, well, they have to hang, Stiles. You can’t fold them up in a drawer.”

“What I’m _saying_ is that no one in this entire world should be shocked that you’re gay.”

Pulling down two Oxford shirts, one blue-gray and the other burgundy, Peter stepped back out into the room, holding them up. “Which one?”

Stiles glanced between them with a frown. “What are you dressing for?”

“Existing,” Peter drawled, “as a shockingly gay member of royal society.” Stiles lifted an eyebrow at him in judgment, and he added, “And dinner at Talia’s later.”

“The blue,” Stiles decided, then gave him a cheeky grin. “And wear a vest.”

* * *

  
  


Talia’s butler bowed as he opened the front door with a subdued, “Your Highness, welcome.”

“Mr. Boyd,” Peter greeted as he stepped into the entryway. “How are your boys doing?”

“Quite well, sir. Vernon is in his last year at USC. He’ll be graduating with honors.”

“How wonderful.”

“Her Majesty is a bit delayed and gives her apologies. She asked that you wait in the solarium, where she will be with you shortly.”

“Of course,” Peter agreed, biting the inside of his cheek to hold the false smile on his lips. His sister liked to make him wait, especially when she was angry with him.

The Beacon Hills Manor had always been too stern for Peter’s taste. The entryway opened to a dark-stained double staircase with wolves carved into the handrails, frozen mid-leap with their ivory teeth bared and garnets glinting in their eyes.

He walked between them, through a massive gallery lined with imposing portraits of long-dead relatives. They had frightened him as a child, the way they all seemed to gaze downward at him, their huge faces drawn into ferocious expressions that seemed judgmental at best, furious at worst.

At the end of the gallery, he passed through a set of over-sized wooden doors inlaid with copper triskelions. The solarium always felt humid, just short of stifling. Outside the glass walls, the summer garden sprawled outward in shocking beauty. Inside, orchids and vining plants hung from the ceiling and various tropical plants framed the delicate wicker furniture.

They had lived in this house only briefly, when Peter was ten years old, Talia already moved out and in graduate school. He had hated it here, hated the isolation of Beacon Hills and the loneliness of roaming the woods by himself, all of the cousins and his other friends back in San Francisco. Talia had liked the location for raising her family, though, set far back in the woods where her children could shift and run freely without fear of being harassed by the press.

Peter sat on the wicker couch, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt as a maid hurried in with a glass of iced tea. Peter thanked her and pulled out his phone. He already had a text from Stiles.

_How’s Beacon Thrills?_

Stiles, by some coincidence, had grown up in Beacon Hills, but he hadn’t even been born yet when Peter lived here. Even then, it would have been unlikely for them to ever interact. Even werewolves not of royal lineage tended to live apart from human society. Peter had attended private schools and taken lessons with private tutors. Stiles had gone to the local public school.

_Her Majesty is making me wait in the greenhouse. She’s literally letting me sweat it out._

He was so focused on tapping out his response that he didn’t hear his sister come in until she said, “And what’s that smile about?”

Peter realized, with some irritation, that he was smiling like an idiot at his phone. He schooled his expression into something prim as he looked up, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Why, the thought of your arrival, of course,” he replied.

“Resorting to flattery already?” Talia stood just inside the doorway, an eyebrow raised and her lips twisted into a smirk. She wore white linen pants and a deep purple blouse that matched her flats. Her eyes flashed red, and his shone blue in response. They stared each other down for a long moment before, at once, they both broke into soft laughter.

Rising from his seat, Peter crossed the room and hugged her around the middle, lifting her from her feet just briefly. He kissed her cheek as he set her down, and she returned the gesture. “It’s nice to see you, Talia.”

She pinched his cheek. “I wish we could do this when it’s not about you giving ulcers to an entire staff of publicity agents.”

Peter spun on his heel, walking back to the sitting area. “Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t know what everyone is so up in arms about. It can’t be such a terrible shock. I own a vineyard and an unholy amount of vests.” He dropped back onto the couch with an exhausted huff.

“It was always going to be a big deal, Peter,” Talia chided, following and sitting in the chair opposite him. “We’re the first generation that could even _dream_ about going public with this. Besides, you know how the press likes to make a fuss.”

“Well, it will all settle down soon enough,” Peter insisted, waving a careless hand and picking up his iced tea. Another maid came in with a drink for Talia – raspberry lemonade, by the smell of it.

“You could have handled the interview a bit better.” She took a sip of her drink, glaring at him over the top of her glass.

It had been a standard catching-up-with-the-royals sort of thing. Peter had been prepared to talk about his business ventures, his house, his vineyard – hell, even his cat. Instead, they’d asked when he thought he would be ready to find a woman and settle down.

“What was I supposed to do? Lie and say I hadn’t found the right one? Apologize for dashing their hopes of more royal babies?” What he had said was, ‘ _Well, I’m gay, so I’m going to say ‘never’_.’ The startled look on the interviewer’s face had been the highlight of his year so far.

“I suppose tact would have been too much to ask for,” Talia laughed softly. She shook her head, but she looked fond. “Anyway, it will blow over as long as you keep your head down and don’t go causing a scandal right after it. You know how the royal watchers get once they have their eyes on someone.”

Peter slouched back in his chair, swirling his glass idly in his hand. “And what sort of scandal do you suppose I would make?”

Talia stared at him for a long moment, lips pursed, and he recognized it as her ‘diplomacy face.’ Weighing her words before she spoke. Finally, she said, “I hear that human boy is still hanging around quite a lot.”

“Stiles?” Peter shrugged a lazy shoulder. “Sure. We’re friends.”

“Peter. Come on, you know how it’s going to look. He’s half your age.”

“He’s not _half my age_ ,” Peter argued. “He’s thirteen years younger. That’s more like sixty percent.”

“Thought about it that much, hmm?” she quipped. When Peter didn’t have a reply beyond a glare, she pressed on. “He’s human. He’s inappropriately young. He’s not from any sort of notable background. If the press catch wind of him, they’ll have a field day.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “It’s innocent, honestly. He’s an interesting person that I enjoy spending time with. There’s nothing romantic about it.”

Talia looked skeptical. “So, what, you’ve taken him under your wing? Brought home a stray?”

“The opposite is closer to the truth, honestly,” Peter admitted.

* * *

  
  


It had been his first night sneaking out to a gay club. Thirty-two years old – and how sad was that? Peter had always been too wary of being recognized or mobbed by paparazzi.

It was mostly a human club, which lowered his chances of being recognized somewhat, but plenty of humans followed and fawned over werewolf royalty. Werewolves in Europe at least got to split attention with the human royal families. Here in the states, the Hales received the full and brutal fixation of the royal watchers.

Peter put on heavy eye makeup and wore his hair loose and curly, instead of gelled back, as he usually wore it. Checking himself in the mirror before going out, Peter had hardly recognized himself.

When he got to the club, he felt a little lost at first. He got himself a wolfsbane drink and nursed it, eyeing the dance floor uncertainly.

“You look like you’re new!” a voice yelled over the noise. Peter stifled a wince. He could have heard just fine at normal speaking volume. When Peter turned, there he was: loose-limbed and joyful in nothing but a pair of skinny jeans and sneakers. Bits of glitter stuck to his abdomen.

Peter leaned closer to him. “You look like you’re new,” he shot back. “There’s no way you’re old enough to be in here.”

The boy laughed and sidled up close, chest-to-chest. Against Peter’s ear, he said, “I’m Stiles.”

They spent a couple of hours dancing and drinking, both of them getting looser as the night went on, touching and laughing more freely. On the dance floor, Peter got a thigh between Stiles’s legs. Stiles ground onto it, wound his arms around Peter’s neck, and kissed him.

They were making out when the fire alarm sounded. Peter doubled over at the noise, hands clasped over his ears. The lights came up, and the sprinklers overhead went off almost immediately, dousing the crowd and dredging up a new wave of noise as people shrieked and pushed for the exits.

When Peter looked up, Stiles was standing next to him, a hand on Peter’s shoulder, surveying the chaos with a frown. His hair was already drenched, slicked down to his forehead. He looked at Peter, swore, then bent down to speak softly in his ear. “We have to get you out of here. Someone’s gonna recognize you.”

The next thing Peter knew, they were on the back patio, scaling the fence to jump into the adjacent alleyway. The winter had started to loosen its grasp lately, but this late at night, drenched to the bone, Peter felt the chill coming on fast. He couldn’t imagine how bad it would be for a human. Stiles grabbed his hand and headed off down the alley at a jog.

“Where are we going?” Peter asked, the first in a long list of questions whizzing through his head. Had Stiles known who he was all along? Why hadn’t he said anything? Was he going to tell anyone?

“My place,” Stiles said. “It’s just a block and a half, and my roommates are out of town. Don’t worry.”

Peter should have been worried. He should have been terrified and calling security staff to come and retrieve him.

Instead, he followed Stiles home to a shitty, tiny three-bedroom apartment. They dried off and made hot chocolate and microwave taquitos. They stayed up all night, just talking. They talked about everything. Their lives, their histories, their friends and families, their fears.

There was a moment that night.

Stiles had been lying on the floor with his feet on the couch, his head pillowed on Peter’s calf. A mosaic glass lamp, hung in the corner of the room, cast shadows of blue and gold over his face. Peter had told Stiles his many reasons for keeping his sexuality out of the press, and Stiles listened quietly until he had poured out his every thought on the matter.

Stiles folded his hands on his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. “You know, the way I think about it, it’s all about power. You’re supposed to sit there and wait for someone to make a judgment on you. Will they accept you or won’t they? That’s the set-up. You bare your soul and wait for them to judge it.”

“So then should you just not do it? Keep things to yourself?” Peter asked.

“Nah, you take the power back. Decide what is and isn’t an acceptable response to you coming out, and you judge them right back. Anyone that isn’t a fucking delight when you come out? Kick ‘em to the curb.” He kicked the back of the couch with a smug little expression.

Stroking his fingers through Stiles’s hair, Peter wished he could have half the brassy courage this boy had. “Is that what you did?” he asked.

Stiles laughed, and the sound bubbled through the room like energy. “No, I cried like a baby. But it’s what I’d do if I could do it again.” He sighed and looked up at Peter, eyes tired but creased with a smile at the corners. “If you decide to come out, promise you won’t give them the power, okay?”

Peter stared down at his face, at his earnest concern for a werewolf royal, of all people. For someone he didn’t even know. For a terrifying moment, he thought, _I could fall in love with him._ Then he shook the thought off, set it aside.

He had never had a best friend before. The werewolf nobility Peter had spent his whole life surrounded by were shameless ladder climbers, social strategists and politicians. Stiles had a best friend growing up, Scott, but they had started to grow apart since Scott went out of state for college. Over the course of a few months, he and Stiles become nearly inseparable.

Maybe it should have been weird, what with the age gap and their radically different backgrounds. Peter had grown up in multi-million dollar mansions, waited on by service staff and trailed by body guards. Stiles had grown up in an understaffed sheriff’s department, doing his math homework in vacant interrogation rooms because his dad couldn’t afford a babysitter as often as he needed one.

But Stiles was funny and sharp as a whip, earnest and passionate. He never once treated Peter like royalty. He pushed him out of his comfort zone and called him on his bullshit, and Peter _adored_ him for it.

If Talia thought he could just call that off, she was crazy.


	2. The Boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Peter's friendship evolves into something more

**November 2016**

When Peter returned with their drinks, he found Stiles plastered against a stranger, back to the man’s chest as they writhed with the beat. His hands were wrapped around Stiles’s hips, a thumb hooked in the waistband of Stiles’s jeans.

If Peter felt a stab of possessiveness, he told himself, it was only because this was supposed to be _their_ night out together.

There had been plenty of occasions where the two of them went out dancing together and left with other people. In Peter’s case, it usually didn’t go much farther than a quick bathroom hookup, too paranoid about someone realizing who he was.

It had been more frequent earlier on in their friendship. Stiles hooked up with guys at college and told Peter about it afterward, usually for a laugh about what a disaster it had been. Maybe Stiles had outgrown the college experimentation phase, or maybe he just didn’t have as much time now that his senior year had rolled around, bringing with it a more difficult class load. In either case, it had been a while since Peter heard about one of his hookups.

“Stiles!” he called over the music.

Stiles opened his eyes, grinned, and pried himself away from the other man, leaving him without so much as a backward glance. “Ohh, thank you, thank you,” Stiles groaned, taking his drink. He nodded toward the edge of the crowd, holding his drink in both hands as latched his lips around the straw. “Let’s hang out until I sip this down a little,” he suggested.

Peter followed him to the wall and leaned against it, sipping on his own wolfsbane whiskey. “So what’s it like, drinking with the permission of the law?” Peter asked.

Straw still pinched between his lips, a thoughtful expression on his face, Stiles hummed. “It’s a little less exciting, honestly,” he decided on. “Deviancy was half the fun.”

“Something tells me you have plenty of deviancy left in you,” Peter laughed.

Stiles had turned twenty-one a week prior, but Scott and a few of his other friends had come into town to throw him a birthday rager. Peter had gotten a lot of strange and poorly-lit video messages that night, including a rather extended video of him singing along to “Your Love is my Drug.” Stiles had been thoroughly embarrassed the morning after.

Tonight, though, was their night to celebrate.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles said beside him. Peter looked over just as Stiles lifted his phone for Peter to see.

_**Royal Alert!** Sources report seeing Prince Peter at East Room, a gay club in Cole Valley._

“Oh, fuck,” Peter repeated, cringing.

It wouldn’t be the end of the world. He was a gay man in a gay club – big whoop. But he had spent the past two years keeping Stiles’s name and face out of the papers, not wanting him to suffer the eternal nightmare of celebrity news.

“You should get out of here,” Peter advised. “There’s going to be paparazzi swarming this place any minute.” He knocked back the rest of his drink, then set the glass on a ledge nearby.

Stiles followed suit, downing his with a wince. “Fuck that, I’m not leaving you to the vultures.” He grabbed Peter by the front of his shirt and dragged him toward the back of the club.

“Running down another alley?” Peter asked in dry amusement.

“Nah, the back door on this place is hooked up to an alarm,” Stiles explained. “But there’s gotta be a staff area we can hide out in.”

A flash of light behind them caught Peter’s attention, and he let his eyes shine to get a better look through the darkness of the club. Sure enough, he spotted a man with a camera weaving his way through the crowd. Once he got through the main dance area, there would be no hiding.

Peter grabbed Stiles’s wrist and lunged for the nearest door. It swung outward, and he crowded Stiles inside, pulling the door shut just as the paparazzo cleared the dance floor.

“Fuck, what is this place?” Stiles asked, groping at Peter’s shoulders to orient himself. It was pitch black, too dark even for Peter to see. He felt for a light switch, but before he could find one, Stiles had the flashlight open on his phone.

A utility closet. A small one. The shelves around them were loaded with rolls of toilet paper and paper towels, bottles of hand soap, cleaning supplies.

“Real cozy place you found us,” Stiles commented.

“There was a photographer literally right behind us,” Peter explained.

“Uh-huh, so what’s the plan here? We stand in a fucking closet all night?”

Peter sighed and leaned back against the shelves. “Unless you have a better one.”

Stiles hesitated, setting his phone down on the shelf, flashlight aimed up so it cast odd shadows over his features. “We could just go out there,” he said softly. “Let them see us, you know, what the fuck.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Peter insisted quickly. “You deserve your privacy.”

Settling against the opposite shelf, Stiles stared at Peter with a soft expression. “And you deserve to hang out with your best friend in the light of day. You know, meet up for coffee. Come out to bars with me and my other friends.”

“That’s just not how my life works, Stiles,” he murmured. “That’s never been something I could have. And, you know, it’s not like I don’t have plenty to make up for it, so I’m not complaining. But I wouldn’t want to put you through that as just… the cost of being my friend.”

Stiles smiled at him and stepped across the small space to lean against Peter’s chest. He wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck and pecked a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Hey. That’s plenty to make up for it. I’m serious. Besides, once they figure out how boring I am, the tabloids would lose interest.”

“They’d think we’re together,” Peter explained, thinking back to Talia’s words after he came out. She had repeated the sentiment several times in the intervening years, never quite believing that he and Stiles were only friends and sure that the press wouldn’t either.

“Why would they think that?” Stiles asked.

Peter looked down at Stiles’s lips, mere inches from his own, then over to the arm wrapped around his neck, then finally back to his eyes. “Oh. I can’t imagine where they would get that idea,” he said in a droll tone.

Stiles laughed and bumped their noses together. His hands slid up the back of Peter’s head through his hair, playing with the curls. “We would just have to explain that we’re very close, very affectionate friends, but we’re totally, completely, one hundred percent platonic except sometimes we make out and that one time when we were really drunk -”

“You promised you weren’t going to bring that up again,” Peter said, pinching Stiles’s side.

“Hey, if two dudes can’t get a little hands-down-the-pants action and still be considered platonic...”

Peter dropped his head onto Stiles’s shoulder, shoulders shaking with laughter. God, this would never work. The public would never understand what they had.

Stiles kept playing with his hair, twisting locks around his fingers, then scratching Peter’s scalp in slow, lazy strokes. “Okay, _other_ option,” he said, and Peter could hear his heartbeat speed up. He cleared his throat, but no more words came.

“Other option?” Peter prompted.

“What if… what if we just let people think we’re together?”

Peter lifted his head, pulling back enough to get a decent look at Stiles’s expression in the eerie light of the phone flashlight. “Fake a relationship?”

Stiles chewed on his lip and looked to the side, shifting back slightly. “Or… you know. Not fake it. What if we were just...”

Peter could hear Stiles’s pulse hammering frantically, the sour smell of anxiety around him. Sure, over the course of two years, Peter had entertained plenty of romantic thoughts for Stiles. He was beautiful and sweet and, god, sometimes the way he flirted made Peter feel half insane. But the thought of changing their relationship scared him, too. “Stiles,” he said softly. “You’re my best friend.”

“No, I know,” Stiles said quickly, taking a full step back. “I was just – it was just an idea, sorry.”

Reaching out, Peter caught him by the belt loops and pulled him back in. “Wait, wait. That isn’t what I said. I didn’t say no. I said you’re my best friend. You’re… you’re my only real friend that isn’t family, okay? And I don’t want to lose you if it doesn’t work out.” He pressed his forehead to Stiles’s.

Tentatively, Stiles’s arms came back up around his neck, a hand curling there and holding in a way that would read as possessive if he were a wolf. “It’ll work out,” Stiles murmured, lips so close Peter could taste his breath, taste the sting of alcohol and twist of sweetness. They had both had enough to get a bit buzzed, but Peter knew he couldn’t blame this conversation on the booze. “It’ll work out _because_ you’re my best friend, Peter.” He huffed a laugh against Peter’s lips. “I love you so much.”

Those words did the trick. Not because he didn’t know that Stiles loved him or because it was a grand revelation of feelings, but because it _wasn’t_. They had been lobbing the ‘L’ word around like an old hackey sack for years now. In a friendly context, sure, but Peter’s mind went back to the past spring, when Stiles had commandeered Peter’s library to study for a midterm. Peter had sat with him, quizzed him, then lifted one of Stiles’s feet to rub it, and Stiles had arched like a cat and groaned, “ _Oh my God, I’m so in love with you_.”

And it had been just as shocking a revelation then as it was now. Which was to say, not at all.

Peter kissed Stiles slowly, easing his lips apart, and this felt familiar, too. Stiles kissed like his lips were made to be connected to another’s, like he could and would keep at it all day if you let him. “Are you sure?” Peter asked against his mouth. “We could be together and keep it quiet. Not forever, but until you’re ready. Whatever you want.”

Stiles opened his mouth to answer, then got distracted licking his way back into Peter’s mouth. They pressed together, hips rolling gently as they made out, lost track of time. Finally, Stiles pulled back to catch his breath and grinned at Peter.

“What I want,” he said, “is to get out of this fucking closet.”

* * *

_**Prince Peter Spotted with Mystery Boy-Toy!** _

“Stiles, are you reading that stupid article again?” Peter sighed.

Stiles looked up at him from his seat at the dining room table, tipping his head back. “Sorry, I only respond to ‘Mystery Boy-Toy’ now,” he explained primly. He had one bare foot on the seat of his chair, the other leg stretched out on the table. His foot’s proximity to a priceless antique teapot was probably giving the staff heart palpitations.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Peter walked over for a quick kiss, upside-down. “Honestly,” he huffed against Stiles’s lips.

“Come on, it’s literally the coolest thing I’ve ever been called,” Stiles insisted.

Peter settled into the chair next to Stiles, shoving his foot out of the way as he reached for the tea. “Sometimes I think you’re intentionally antagonizing Mrs. Larson,” he chided.

“What? She loves me!” Stiles set his tablet on the table. Squirming around in his seat to face the kitchen, he called, “Mrs. Larson, we’re bros, right?”

The maid’s gray-haired head poked out around the kitchen door, fixing Peter with a glare that could strip paint.

“Ignore him,” Peter reassured. “He’s just nervous about dinner tonight.”

Mrs. Larson retreated. Peter flicked Stiles’s ear. “One of these days, she’s going to poison you, and it’ll be your own damn fault.”

Stiles grinned at him from over his tea cup, taking a noisy slurp. “You’re grumpy this morning,” he noted cheerfully. “Are you sure _you’re_ not nervous about dinner?”

Instead of answering, Peter huffed and squeezed some lemon into his tea. “Have you decided what you’re going to wear yet?”

“Nope,” Stiles answered, “but I’m not worried about it. I dunno why you are. _You’re_ the one with the fashion sense that needs to be reined in. Mine is bold yet impeccable.” He lifted his nose in the air in a self-congratulatory fashion.

“You own at least ten crop tops,” Peter deadpanned. He took a sip of his tea and felt the warmth spread through his chest immediately, his shoulders lowering where they had been bunched around his ears.

“ _Bold_ ,” Stiles reiterated firmly, gesturing toward Peter with his teacup so a bit sloshed over the rim. “But _impeccable_.”

Peter reached over to steady Stiles’s hand, trying to fight off a grin without much success. He tried his best not to encourage Stiles when he got into these rowdy sorts of moods. “Remind me what I see in you?” he teased.

Without taking his leg off the table, in a very _distracting_ show of flexibility, Stiles bent forward and swapped his tea cup for one of the croissants set out next to the tea service. “Well,” he said as he flopped back into his chair, “as of a couple days ago, I’m going to say it’s the stellar blowjobs. Before that? Mystery to me, man. The world may never know.” He started plucking at his croissant, unrolling layers from around it.

Peter struggled to form a response, his eyes fixed on Stiles’s fingers as they pressed fluffs of pastry into his mouth. His tongue darted out to lick at the grease on his thumb.

Then Stiles peeked at him out of the corner of his eye and a little grin gave him away.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” Peter huffed, reaching over to yank Stiles’s chair closer. It brought Stiles’s foot dangerously close to his tea cup, but he didn’t pay it any mind. Leaning over the arms of their chairs, Peter kissed Stiles again, chasing the taste of butter and pastry on his tongue.

Stiles hummed contentedly against his mouth. When Peter pulled back, he said, “You could come over to my place before we leave. We haven’t fucked there yet.”

Peter smirked. “Oh, dear, it could take us hours to christen all the rooms,” he joked. Stiles lived in a studio apartment now, about the size of a closet with plumbing that shook when in use.

“Are you making fun of my apartment or over-promising on your stamina?” Stiles shot back. “I can’t tell.”

With a laugh, Peter fell back into his own chair, taking a cinnamon roll for himself. “I’ll get my clothes for tonight, and then we can go to get yours,” he agreed. “We’ll be careful – I’ll have the driver drop us off in the alley.”

Stiles had been shacked up at Peter’s house all weekend, since the press caught sight of him and Peter leaving the club together Friday. He had begged out of his classes for the day, citing a family emergency.

“ _It sort of is,”_ he had insisted, sitting bare-assed in the middle of Peter’s bed as he typed out an email on his phone. _“It just happens to be your family that’s the emergency.”_

Tomorrow, though, he needed to go to class again, back to reality. After enduring a dinner party with Queen Talia and the rest of his family, Peter suspected that reality would be a welcome respite.

“Why bother with the sneaking?” Stiles asked. “It’s not like they won’t figure out who I am soon anyway. I don’t mind.”

“Her Majesty minds,” Peter said firmly, gesturing at him with his fork. “At least until you’ve been harassed by the etiquette and publicity advisers.” Stiles wrinkled his nose at that. “Besides, you really don’t want the press to have your address. We have fences and security here. The lock on your building’s front door hasn’t worked since you moved in.”

Stiles huffed. “You keep talking like that, and I’m going to start thinking you don’t like my apartment.”

* * *

  
  


Peter hated Stiles’s apartment. He hated its cramped dimensions, its scuffed flooring, its ancient appliances. He hated the paper thin walls and the downstairs neighbor that left the chainsaw-roar of the bathroom fan running constantly. He hated that Stiles could hardly afford it and that, despite his claims to the contrary, he had only gotten it so Peter could feel comfortable coming over without fear of prying roommates.

Whenever he got the opportunity, Peter tried his best to slip money into Stiles’s hands, but Stiles had always been wary of it. _“Look, if I had more food than I could eat, you wouldn’t feel weird taking home leftovers,”_ he had argued a little over a year earlier, when Stiles had lost his part-time gig as a waiter. “ _I have more money than I need. Let me help you_.”

Stiles had relented then, and even agreed not to try to pay Peter back afterward. But the second he got another job, this one as an undergraduate research assistant, he had gone right back to his stubborn insistence on self-sufficiency.

“Didn’t you ask the landlord to fix this a month ago?” he asked as they stepped into the apartment. Peter’s eyes immediately honed in on one of the apartment’s two windows, which had a towel shoved up around the bottom of it. Peter strode over and pulled the cloth back to reveal duct tape haphazardly covering up the crack where the window wouldn’t close the rest of the way.

Stiles shrugged and flopped onto his back on the bed. “It’s fine. Now stop being a snob and come sex me.” He made grabby hands at Peter.

Peter snorted and put the towel back. “You’re such a charmer,” he teased, walking over to the bed. He stopped short of the bed and prompted, “Foot.” Stiles obediently lifted a booted foot into Peter’s waiting hand. Stiles had stolen about a third of his wardrobe out of Peter’s closet, which Peter pretended not to notice. The rest, including shoes, he got at secondhand stores, where he had preternatural good luck. Peter turned Stiles’s foot from side to side in his hand, examining the sturdy brown leather as he tugged the bow loose. “I can’t believe you found these for ten dollars.”

“It’s the thrift mojo.” Stiles nodded sagely.

Peter tugged the shoe and sock off, then gestured for the other foot and gave it the same treatment. As he moved in closer to the bed, Stiles wriggled his hips expectantly, waiting for Peter to get to work on his jeans. Peter smirked. “Oh, I have no idea how to get those off you,” he said with a laugh. “If I hadn’t watched you wriggle into them this morning, I would feel fairly confident that you’d had them sewn on.”

“You’re a jerk,” Stiles accused with a grin. He pulled his shirt off. Peter followed suit. He stood over Stiles, eyes hungrily mapping the planes of his torso, but restraining himself from pouncing. Stiles slid a hand down his stomach, then cupped himself through his jeans.

With a wicked glint in his eye, Stiles said, “If you claw them off, I’ll let you buy me another pair.”

Peter looked heavenward, not sure if he was thanking the gods for sending him an angel or cursing them for sending a devil. In either case, they only got a moment’s thought before he found himself on top of Stiles, devouring his mouth and trailing claws down his ribs.

Stiles shivered. “Fuck,” he gasped. He licked at Peter’s fangs. “Why is that so hot?”

He knew Stiles had never been with another wolf before, and a deeply territorial part of him reveled in that knowledge. Kneeling up so he could watch, Peter caught his claws in the waistband of Stiles’s jeans and yanked them downward, shredding through the fabric down to the knee. Then he took a single claw to the rips on Stiles’s right leg, dragging it down to the ankle. Then the left. Stiles lifted his hips to allow Peter to tug the tattered remains away from him, leaving him in a pair of Peter’s own boxer briefs. “When did you snag these?” Peter asked, tugging at the waistband.

“I plead the fifth,” Stiles answered, though he sounded breathless.

“Turn over,” Peter said softly. Stiles did as he was told, getting onto his elbows and knees. Leaning forward, he nipped at Stiles’s ass through the underwear, his fangs snagging on the fabric. “You know, there will be no hiding this tonight,” he murmured, tugging down the waistband. “You reek of me.”

He could hear Stiles’s heart racing, the heady scent of arousal becoming more potent by the second. “I told you,” he said, “I don’t want to hide it.”

Peter dragged the flat of his tongue against Stiles’s hole, winning a whine and an uncontrollable rock of Stiles’s hips back against his face. Gripping his hips in both hands to hold him steady, Peter pressed in again, this time spearing the tip against his hole and finding it already relaxed for him, letting him in so sweetly.

“Ohh my god,” Stiles groaned, his voice muffled against the bed. He turned his head to the side to speak more clearly, reaching back to stroke Peter’s hair as he did so. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, because -” Peter pressed a finger into him, curling it against his prostate, and Stiles’s back arched beautifully. “- oh fuck, nevermind. No, wait, _fuck_. Yes.” His hand swatted at Peter’s head with a laugh, and Peter sat up to let him speak, though he didn’t pull his finger out. “I was _saying_ , we don’t have time for another marathon fuck, and I _know_ that’s what you’re going for.”

Peter hummed and circled his finger idly over Stiles’s prostate, smirking in satisfaction as he rocked his hips back onto it. “I believe you said something earlier about me… what was it? _Over-promising on my stamina_?”

“Stop being an ego maniac and fuck me,” Stiles chided, kicking Peter’s knee. “Lube’s in the nightstand.”

“A milk crate is not a nightstand,” Peter reminded him as he pulled away. Stiles’s “nightstand” was actually _two_ milk crates stacked on top of one another sideways, a bottle of lube, box of tissues, and box of condoms all proudly on display in the top crate. Stiles liked to deter surprise guests.

Stiles rolled over and scooted up the bed. It was only a full-size, which was fortunate for the floor space in his room. Kicking off his underwear, Stiles spread his legs and wrapped a hand around himself loosely. He watched Peter with a heated gaze. “Why are your pants still on?”

Peter huffed at him and thumbed open the fly of his pants with a pointed glare. He stripped out of them, then reached for the milk crates again and tossed the lube to Stiles. “Did you want me to use one of these?” Peter asked, lifting the box of condoms in offering. They hadn’t all weekend – Peter couldn’t carry diseases – but they did need to be somewhere in a few hours, after all.

“Nah. I’ll have to shower anyway,” Stiles answered, pumping the lube onto two of his fingers and reaching down to press them into himself.

“You know...” Peter mused, stroking himself while he watched, eyes fixed on the lazy twist of Stiles’s fingers. He had gorgeous fingers, long and forever fidgeting. “Some people might be nervous about having dinner with the werewolf queen reeking of cum.”

Stiles grinned. “Yeah, but that’s why you’re with me and not someone like that.”

Peter crawled up the bed and kissed Stiles, pulling his hand away and replacing Stiles’s fingers with three of his own, groaning at the tight heat and curling them inward.

“Hey, if you wanna get me off like this, be my guest,” Stiles panted against his lips, “but if you were planning to fuck me, get a move on.”

“Pushy,” Peter said, pulling back and grabbing the lube. “Bossy,” he added while he slicked himself up.

Stiles grinned and lifted his legs, holding himself behind the knees. “You _love_ me,” he sing-songed back.

Peter pressed into him with a growl, letting his eyes flash so he could see the returning hunger and awe on Stiles’s face. “I do,” he agreed.

He didn’t hold back, snapping his hips forward and then pinning Stiles’s down as he fucked him in the short, quick thrusts that Peter knew would key him up quickly. Stiles’s legs wrapped around him, high on his rib cage. His hands slipped up, one tangling in his hair and tugging, the other squeezing the back of Peter’s neck in a show of possessiveness that had yet to fail at bringing Peter’s wildest instincts to the surface.

Stiles came first, shivering under him, whining Peter’s name over and over. Peter bit into Stiles’s shoulder with blunt human teeth as he followed suit.

* * *

  
  


When they arrived, Laura was the only member of the family waiting in the sitting room for them. She smiled sweetly as she shook Stiles’s hand in greeting, but her nose twitched in a tell-tale sniff. While Stiles settled onto the love seat, she whipped her head around toward Peter, an outraged expression on her face. _“What is the matter with you?_ ” she demanded, too quiet for Stiles’s human ears to pick up.

In their defense, they had showered after they had sex.

In Laura’s defense, Peter had jerked off onto Stiles in the shower and spent long minutes rubbing the product into his skin.

Truly, placing blame in matters such as these was a futile exercise.

“So Stiles,” she said sweetly, turning her attention back to the guest of honor as Peter took the spot beside him. “I hear you’re in school. UCSF? What are you studying?”

Stiles, seemingly oblivious to Laura’s reaction, reached over and slipped his hand into Peter’s, lacing their fingers together. “I’m doing a double major, psychology and media studies. I’m working on research about the psychological mechanisms of social media.”

At once, Laura seemed to forget the scent issue. She had become something of a ruthless dictator for the family’s publicity team, and immediately began grilling Stiles on his research. Bless him, Stiles kept up with an easy and eager confidence.

Laura’s husband, Marco, entered not long after. He didn’t make comment on the smell. Derek and Cora, when they arrived, were not so restrained.

“She’s going to kill you,” Derek murmured as they hugged in greeting. “And I’m going to let her.”

“So nice to see you again, Derek,” Peter cooed. “It’s been too long.”

Cora went in for a hug in the same way, simply saying, “Gross, Uncle Peter. Gross.”

If anything about this dinner could be called “a blessing,” it was that Peter and Talia’s other siblings and their respective broods wouldn’t be in attendance. The Hales, falling into the same trappings as all royals, prided themselves on fertility and large families to keep the lines of succession strong. Peter’s eldest brother, Lawrence, had been given an alpha spark by a lower noble in New Orleans in exchange for marrying his daughter and elevating her to the title of Princess and Duchess of Louisiana. They had four little were-beasts, all grown and starting to have babies of their own. Between Lawrence and Peter were two sisters, Vera and Margaret, who had both married Dukes and started popping out babies in Chicago and Seattle, respectively.

Peter, the baby of the family, was the only one who had stayed close by his alpha, and was expected to do so until he married into a land title. At least, that had been the expectation before his notorious TV interview. After that, there had been much speculation over his fate. Perhaps another gay noble somewhere would make a good match? Or his sister would grant him a parcel of territory off the crown’s land in northern California.

He had thought about floating the idea to Stiles as a joke: W _hat do you think, sweetums? Should we ask Her Majesty for Oakland or Fresno?_

Maybe it was a bit early to joke about that, though.

They hadn’t yet settled into seats from Derek and Cora’s arrival when the butler opened the door to admit Talia. She looked as glamorous as always in a black cashmere sweater and neatly tailored gold trousers. All attention turned not to her, but to Stiles, who had frozen stock still at the sight of her.

For as flippant as he had acted all day about meeting the Queen, every werewolf nose and ear in the room could easily pick up his spike of anxiety.

Talia smiled at him sweetly. “You must be Stiles,” she greeted. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

Stiles, graceful as ever, stumbled forward a couple of steps and fell into a clumsy approximation of a bow. “It’s nice to meet you, um, Your Majesty.”

Tipping her head to the side as she watched him, Talia explained patiently, “It’s only appropriate for subjects of the crown to bow.” As a human, he was not under her her dominion.

Lifting his head, Stiles looked at her, then back at Peter, then back to Talia. “Oh, well, you know,” he joked, “any monarch of Peter’s is a monarch of mine.”

The room went very still and very quiet, with the exception of Peter, who snorted and tried to cover it up with a cough. The staff, who had been bustling about to get refreshments ready, all froze.

Talia pressed her lips together for a long moment, then huffed a small laugh. “We will definitely get you to an etiquette instructor before we let Peter hang you out to dry in public.” She winked.

The tension seemed to pass. She came further into the room, allowing Stiles to slink up to Peter’s side. Derek and Marco resumed a conversation about their investments. Maybe they would all get through this in one piece after all.

“Oh, and Peter?” Talia said. “The smell?” The room went quiet again, Talia’s children all looking horrified at the idea that their mother would address it in front of them. She flashed her eyes at Peter. “You’ll tell him about it later, and you’ll apologize to him.”

Oh, god. Peter could flaunt his indiscretions and take the heat for that, but he didn’t want Talia thinking that he’d brought Stiles here smelling like a poorly washed cum rag without his knowledge or permission. He opened his mouth to explain that with as much tact as he could muster.

Stiles turned to him with the most innocent, doe-eyed, _treacherous_ expression. “Smell?” he asked in a tone that would sound perfectly clueless to anyone that didn’t know what a little _con artist_ he was.

Peter bit his lip to keep himself from hurling obscenities at his new lover in front of his family. “Later, dear,” he assured in a tone that he hoped conveyed _exactly_ what sort of discussion they would be having later.

* * *

  
  


Peter had forewarned Stiles about the most important differences in table etiquette for werewolves. The alpha gave some sort of greeting or toast prior to eating. The alpha had to take a bite first, followed by guests from outside the pack, and finally the pack itself. Talia looked rather pleased with Stiles when he ate in the proper order.

“I expected more forks.” Stiles gestured at his place setting. Only the salads had been served so far.

“That’s a human convention,” Peter explained, “like cooking the meat before you serve it.” Stiles’s eyes went wide, and Peter let him panic for just a moment before jostling their shoulders with a grin. “Kidding. Well, sort of. They’ll cook yours through.”

“Don’t pick on him,” Laura chided from across the table. “This dinner is torture enough.”

Stiles laughed loudly, then froze when Talia raised an eyebrow at him. “I mean, um.” He didn’t finish his thought, instead ducking his head and stabbing into his salad frantically.

Halfway through the main course, Talia’s voice broke through the quiet hum of chit-chat and chewing. “So, Stiles,” she said, “You’ve known Peter long enough, you know some of what’s involved in living in the public sphere. I understand you feel ready to take on the scrutiny of the press?”

Swallowing and taking a sip of his wine before answering, Stiles nodded. “Well, as ready as I can be, I guess. I’m sure there’s plenty you can’t, you know, brace yourself for.” Under the table, he squeezed Peter’s knee. Peter closed his hand over Stiles’s.

“There will be criticism,” she told him, no attempt to gentle the implications. “Your relationship would already draw extra scrutiny because you’re both men. Peter is the first immediate member of the royal family to come out publicly. Then there’s your age, your lack of royal blood, your humanity.”

Peter could hear her building up to a lecture, and the point of it seemed to be, _you don’t want this._ He held Stiles’s hand more firmly. “And the press can shove it on all accounts,” he snapped.

Talia gave him a weary expression, then turned back to Stiles. “This will affect all parts of your life. Your friends and family. Your career. Your privacy. Your home. You should be very sure.”

“I am,” he said softly, and thought his heart was beating out a hummingbird tempo, it stayed steady.

The whole family watched Talia’s expression, regally stoic as she watched Stiles, evaluating. Finally, she picked her fork up again to resume eating. “Peter, have him send a copy of his schedule to Lynn in PR. We’ll arrange for etiquette lessons to start this week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this all at once, but feel free to leave chapter comments if the inspiration strikes you!


	3. The Engagement

**May 2017**

_**Trendy or In-Your-Face? 20 of Stiles’s Most Outrageous Looks** _

Peter snagged the tablet out of Stiles’s hand on his way to the kitchen, stopping just long enough to tap it on the top of Stiles’s head. “I thought you said you were going to stop reading this tabloid trash,” he tutted.

“Do _you_ think my stompy boots are a cry for attention?” Stiles asked.

“No, but I think they imply a level of masculinity you have no intention of following through on.”

“That’s hurtful,” Stiles said.

“I also think they’re no one’s fucking business but yours,” Peter added for good measure. He stuck his head into the kitchen and called, “Mrs. Larson? I don’t mean to rush you, but is the tea about ready? I’d like to be out by nine thirty.”

When he turned around, he saw Stiles had stretched out long on the sofa, his feet and hands dangling over the ends on either side. “What’s the rush? We’re just hanging out with my dad.”

“We would be skinned alive if we arrived late to one of my family’s events. I think we should extend your father the same respect out of principle,” Peter lied smoothly. He walked over and bent down for a quick kiss.

“Mmm, I love you,” Stiles murmured.

“Even when I get on your nerves?” Peter asked. This had become a standard call-and-response of affection for the two of them.

“Especially when you get on my nerves,” Stiles answered.

As far as Stiles knew, this would be a quiet celebratory brunch, just the two of them and the sheriff. He had opted not to attend his university’s graduation ceremony, not wanting the press that would inevitably come with such a public spectacle. _“There’s thousands of other_ _students_ _graduating, too, and if I go, it’ll all be a bunch of cameras on me drawing the attention,”_ he had said with a roll of his eyes, and Peter hated that the vultures in the tabloids had already gotten under his skin so thoroughly.

“ _It’s your graduation. It’s a big deal, and you deserve to enjoy it as much as the rest of them,”_ Peter had argued.

But Stiles had just shrugged a lazy shoulder. “ _Knowing me, I’d wear my stupid square hat wrong or my gown would be too flashy.”_

So, to make up for it, they were spending graduation day with the sheriff. Peter had expected the man to hate him, what with the age difference and the reporters harassing Noah for information about Stiles. At first, he may very well have hated Peter, but a few blowups between Peter and those same reporters had proved beyond any doubt that he was prepared to defend Stiles with utmost ferocity.

When Peter pulled him into his scheme for the day, Noah hadn’t even hesitated. He just clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder and asked if he had the ring size worked out.

He’d taken the size while Stiles slept. A parade of elephants couldn’t wake Stiles before seven.

* * *

  
  


“Did we really have to go somewhere that requires _formal attire_?” Stiles griped, fidgeting with his blazer. “For breakfast? I’m too scared to eat pancakes in this thing – I’ll get syrup on it.”

“You should try eating with your mouth closed,” Peter advised, and got an elbow to the ribs for his trouble.

The hostess that greeted them stumbled over her words in giddiness. “Oh, uh, your – your Highness, Mr. Stilinski. We’re so happy you chose to dine with us this morning.”

“I hear your terrace has one of the best views in town,” Peter replied smoothly. He had reserved the whole terrace for this morning.

It was beautiful, high up on a cliffside overlooking a comparatively quiet, scenic area of Richardson Bay. He couldn’t have asked for better weather, the fog having cleared already, leaving nothing but cloud-dappled sunshine and a sweetly cooling breeze off the water.

Noah was already waiting for them, leaning against the railing and looking out over the bay with a broad smile on his face that Peter didn’t often see so unguarded. He hadn’t expected to feel jittery over the idea that Noah was actively _happy_ about this.

Stiles got the pancakes after all, but insisted on taking the blazer off while he ate. They mostly talked about Stiles’s plans now that he was finished with school. Laura had already assured him a seat in the royal family PR department, though Stiles wasn’t sure if he wanted to do that full time.

“It just sort of feels like… like it’s getting handed to me? It’s not supposed to be that easy, you know?”

Peter clicked his tongue and leaned over to kiss some syrup off the corner of Stiles’s mouth. “It’s about time our penchant for nepotism went to a deserving candidate,” he argued. He pulled back, licking the sticky flavor off his lips. The spot was still there. He dipped the corner of his napkin in his water, then reached over to scrub it off. Stiles would be furious if he had syrup on his face for the proposal.

Noah watched his fussing with a nostalgic sort of expression, and Peter couldn’t help but think that he was remembering Stiles’s mother. It made him flush a little, not expecting the kick of emotion that came with the thought.

“He’s right, you know,” Noah said. “Most successful people had someone give them a hand up at some point. There’s no shame in it. You said yourself Laura is interested in the research you were working on – that’s on your merit.”

“And you did promise you would keep working on the promos for the vineyard,” Peter added. “So it’s not like it would be your sole vocation.”

“Oh, because working for your vineyard totally helps with the nepotism issues,” Stiles joked.

“I didn’t say that. I said you promised,” Peter shot back with a grin.

As they were finishing up their food, Stiles’s dad received a call, right on time. “Work,” he said, “I’m gonna go take this.” Then he disappeared inside, leaving Stiles and Peter alone on the terrace.

Peter nudged Stiles and stood. “Come on, let’s enjoy the view.” He walked over to the railing, his heart thudding in his chest as he placed a hand briefly over the lump in his jacket pocket.

Stiles came up next to him, hands gripping wide on the railing as he leaned forward. “God, this place is really, really beautiful,” he sighed. He looked over at Peter. “Thank you. This is, like, a thousand times better than getting mobbed by reporters today.”

Stepping in close, Peter wrapped a hand around the back of Stiles’s neck and leaned in for a kiss. “I can think of something that would make this day even better,” he purred.

A mischievous grin spread across Stiles’s lips, clearly buying the misdirection as he turned toward Peter. “Oh yeah? You’ll have to tell me all about it.” He kissed at Peter’s jaw.

“Well, to start...” Peter murmured, then took a half step back and dropped to a knee. He saw the teasing turn to confusion turn to shock and realization all in the matter of a second as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the little ring box. “You know I love you, Stiles. I’ve loved you since the day I met you, and I love you more every day.”

“Even when I get on your nerves?” Stiles blurted.

Peter grinned. “Especially when you get on my nerves.”

They had talked about it, of course. Peter would never make this sort of decision for the two of them without Stiles’s input. They had talked in vague terms, though: What would they do when it happened? should it be public or private? How long should they wait? How would they handle the press?

He opened the box. Inside sat two slim cobalt rings, simple but elegant with a subtle, weaving design. “Will you marry me?”

Stiles sucked in a shaky breath, blinking quickly to chase off the waterworks Peter knew were threatening to overtake him. He covered his face with his hands, then slipped them down so they covered just his mouth and nose, peeking over them at Peter, at the rings. He said nothing, just made noisy near-hyperventilating sounds.

Finally, Peter said, “You know, traditionally, an answer is expected in this situation. Some of us are getting on in our years and have knee pain.”

“Shut up, you don’t have knee pain,” Stiles laughed. “Let me feel my fucking feelings for a second.” He wiped at the inside corners of his eyes and nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yes. Obviously. Get up.”

Peter started to get up, but Stiles was already grabbing him by his arm, pulling him up the rest of the way. He crowded in for a hug first, burying his face in Peter’s neck and scenting him. He didn’t have werewolf senses, but he knew that Peter liked the feeling of scenting and being scented. Stiles pulled back just far enough to kiss Peter, slow and sweet.

Off on the other side of the balcony, Noah was snapping pictures on his cell phone. Inside the restaurant, he had no doubt others were as well. They would make an official announcement this week, but the rumors would leak well ahead of then.

Bringing the ring box between them, Peter looked down at it. “Should we put these on now or wait until the wedding?” he asked.

“Oh my god _the wedding_ ,” Stiles said. “There’s going to be a _wedding_. I’m going to _marry you._ ” He was grinning like an idiot at Peter, then looked over to where his dad stood, trying to pretend that he wasn’t crying. “Dad, I’m gonna marry this guy!” he called.

Noah laughed and waved a hand.

“Oh my god, he knew!” Stiles realized, gaping. He shoved at Peter’s shoulder. “Did you ask his permission for my hand in marriage?” he demanded.

Peter lifted his chin. “That’s a trick question, and I won’t respond to it.”

Stiles laughed, then looked down at the rings. “I want to put it on now,” he decided. “I think I’m gonna go crazy waiting to be married to you.”

The words hit Peter square in the chest. For a second, he could hardly breathe. He kissed Stiles again, nuzzling his cheek as they parted. “Come on,” he said, reaching down to separate the rings in the box. One was just slightly smaller than the other, for a slenderer finger. He picked it up and held it out for Stiles’s finger. It fit perfectly.

Stiles picked up the other and slid it on Peter’s finger, leaning up to kiss his cheek as he did. “I’m gonna marry you...” he murmured, a bit manically against his skin.

Finally, Stiles crossed the terrace to tackle his father in one of those all-out Stilinski-style hugs. Peter could hear the sheriff murmuring, “Congratulations, son. He’s a good one.” Then Noah was releasing Stiles and turning to him, holding his arms out. “Come on, then. You may a Hale, but you’re going to be a Stilinski, too. Stilinskis are huggers.”

* * *

  
  


They drove back to the house with Stiles’s dad, though Peter’s personal driver and a bodyguard stuck close to their back bumper. Stiles sat up front with his dad and spent the whole drive gleefully grilling the both of them on how long they had been planning this behind his back.

Nothing looked amiss as they turned down their street, but the moment the front gate opened to let them in, Stiles whipped around in his seat with an accusing expression. Their driveway was lined with cars, many of which Stiles would recognize on sight.

“How many people did you tell about proposing!” he demanded.

Peter laughed and leaned forward to push on the side of Stiles’s head playfully. “I told them it was a graduation party, you idiot.”

“Oh. Right.” He looked back around at the cars, probably cataloging who he could expect to be here. “We get to tell them, though, right?”

“That’s the idea.”

The royal presence was relatively modest to start with – at least, as modest as it could get with two princesses and three princes in attendance. In any case, Peter hadn’t branched out into his extended family, except for a couple of cousins who lived locally and who he got on with well. His nieces and nephew had come, Laura hugely pregnant and Marco glued to her side, his protective instincts in overdrive. Peter had invited some business friends he’d met through the winery as well.

The rest were Stiles’s people. They were mostly around his age, high school friends and a few from college. Scott ran over to greet Stiles with an enthusiastic hug the moment they stepped onto the terrace. The staff had done a spectacular job setting everything up in the short time they had been out. Lydia approached at a more sedate pace, strolling up with a plate of hors d’oeuvres balanced in a neatly manicured hand. Peter liked Lydia the best out of Stiles’s friends, though they had only met when she was back from MIT on vacation.

She waited for Scott to stop trying to squeeze the life out of Stiles before leaning in and pecking him on the cheek. “Happy graduation,” she praised. Lydia had graduated a year earlier and was now working on a graduate degree of startling complexity. Turning to Peter, she said, “And thank you again for the plane ticket – it was very sweet.”

“Of course,” Peter agreed.

“You bought her a plane ticket?” Stiles demanded, then spun back to Lydia, gesturing wildly. “You let him buy you a plane ticket?”

Lydia shrugged and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “He insisted.” Then, changing the subject, she reached out and snatched Stiles’s flailing left hand from the air. “Now why don’t you tell me what the hell _that_ is.”

It figured she would be the first to notice the rings.

“Wait, woah, what?” Scott demanded, face splitting in a grin. “Dude!” He turned and called over his shoulder, “Hey, Allison!” waving her over.

Stiles groaned. “Oh my God, would you two shut up? We’re supposed to make an announcement. I don’t even have a drink yet.”

As if on cue, a waiter appeared at their sides with a tray of drinks, and Stiles snatched a pink-tinted glass of champagne from it. “That one’s the wolfsbane,” the waiter corrected gently. Stiles passed it to Peter, then reached for a glass of the yellowish bubbly.

“You thought I would serve sparkling rosé?” Peter asked, wrinkling his nose.

Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning against Peter’s shoulder, turning to Lydia and Scott as Allison came over. “He thinks rosé is a tacky bandwagon trend,” he explained.

“It’s only popular because Instagram models think it looks pretty,” Peter huffed.

“Oh my _god_ , did you get engaged?” Allison blurted, a touch too loud, and every wolf in attendance wheeled around to look at them. A moment too late, she slapped a hand over her own mouth, mortified as she realized that she had blown the surprise.

Peter waved a hand at her. “That’s on us, I let him distract me,” he assured her. Next to him, Stiles was cracking up, face pressed against Peter’s shoulder. Peter sighed, wrapping an arm around Stiles’s middle. He raised his voice. “For those of you who didn’t hear, Stiles and I have an announcement to make,” he called out.

Stiles quelled his laughter, lifting his head and then snatching Peter’s left hand with his own. He raised them into the air. “We’re getting married!”

The first two hours of the party, Peter lost track of how many people they had talked to. There weren’t even that many people in attendance, he didn’t think. By the time one person had finished congratulating them, another pair of lips were against his cheek or an arm around his shoulders.

“It’s a good thing we ate before we got here,” Stiles murmured against his ear. “I haven’t even gotten near the food.”

Peter kissed his temple and grabbed his hand, dragging Stiles toward one of the food tables. “Sorry, her future highness demands sustenance,” he joked to Marie, his Winemaking Director.

“I wasn’t demanding anything,” Stiles insisted with a laugh.

“You were about to,” Peter replied. He knew the progression of Stiles’s appetites. If he so much as mentioned food, it meant he was no more than ten minutes from devolving into a whiny, hangry mess. “Come on, what do you want? They made all your favorites.”

“Taquitos?” Stiles teased.

“All of your favorites that are fit to serve to guests,” Peter amended.

By the time he had a seventh bacon-wrapped water chestnut stuffed in his cheek, Stiles had fallen deep in conversation with Marco about his and Laura’s royal wedding experience. Peter hadn’t wandered far from Stiles, caught up in conversation with Lydia and Kira but keeping track of his fiance’s movements in the back of his mind. He didn’t notice Talia’s arrival so much as he noticed the sound of Stiles choking on his food.

He coughed and scrambled over to Peter’s side, hissing, “You didn’t warn me she was coming!”

Talia heard – of course she heard – and looked over at them with a smile. Peter lifted his hand in a wave, smiling sweetly, though he felt as thrown as Stiles looked. “I invited her,” he murmured through his teeth, “but since it was just a graduation party, I figured she wouldn’t make it. One of her brood must have texted her.”

The crowd parted for her like opposing magnets, repelled by her admittedly intimidating presence. Her Majesty wore a bold red business dress, a little out of place at a garden party, but he figured she hadn’t had enough notice to change. Lydia and Kira, even Marco, cleared out to give her unfettered access to the guests of honor.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” she said, stopping a respectable distance away. If they had done this in private, she would have hugged them both, been exuberant and happy for them. In front of this many unknown people, she had to maintain her stoic alpha veneer.

“You heard right,” Stiles answered, holding his hand out to show the ring.

Talia took his hand, using it to pull him in close enough to press her cheek to his, a more affectionate greeting than she had given him in public ever before. Stiles looked elated when she pulled away to give Peter the same greeting. “Congratulations to you both. Stiles, we’re very excited to have you in the family,” she assured him, and the tone was genuine, though Peter could hear the underlying anxiety. No doubt her political wheels were already churning with the potential fallout.

They made polite small-talk for a while. Peter hated talking to his sister in public like this, when she knew others could be listening in. Everything stayed surface-level, unemotional, stiff. It made him feel, sometimes, like she didn’t care about him at all, even if his logical brain knew better. She asked about the proposal. She asked if they had thought about timing yet, which they hadn’t. She offered the use of the royal events planner, which Peter had already assumed was a given.

Then, as if it were just another innocuous question, she smiled at Stiles and said, “And do you think you’ll want the bite after the wedding?”

Stiles froze, and Peter could hear his heart hammering, the sour scent of anxiety spiking.

Peter placed a hand on Stiles’s lower back, trying to steady him. He wanted to snap at Talia, scold her for asking that sort of question in this setting, on this day, for asking at all. He wanted to call it out as a rude fucking question, but he had no idea if it was. There really wasn’t a prescribed etiquette for a royal marrying a human. They just weren’t supposed to in the first place.

After what felt like an eternity, Stiles found his voice. It came out quiet, though, a little shaky. “Um, no. I… thank you, but I don’t want that.”

Talia’s expression moved in ways so minute that nobody but immediate family could have picked up on it. She recognized, Peter knew, that she had upset Stiles.

Peter gave her a coldly polite smile. “We are very glad you could make it,” he said. “I know it wasn’t on your agenda for the day. I hope you didn’t have to detour too far.”

She took the out, turning fully to Peter. “Oh, not at all. I was just on my way to a meeting in the city here. I should probably be heading that way, though. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.” If anyone noticed the awkwardness of her exit, they didn’t say anything.

Once she was gone, Peter turned and took both of Stiles’s hands in his own. “I love you,” he breathed, voice soft and just for Stiles. “I love you exactly as you are.”

Stiles let out an unsteady breath and nodded. He pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes.

* * *

  
  


Peter swore, checking his coat pockets, then his laptop bag, then the dining room table, for the third time. Finally, he headed upstairs to the bedroom. “Stiles? Could you call my -”

He stopped in the doorway at the sight that greeted him. Stretched out face-down on the bed, still in his pajamas, Stiles lay with a pillow hugged under his chest, face pressed into the sheets. It was a Stiles position of deep distress, one of the most distressed of his library of absurd positions.

“Sweetheart, what’s the matter?” he asked, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed. He nearly sat on Stiles’s tablet, then picked it up and turned the screen on.

_**Gold Digger Stiles Strikes It Rich** _

Peter’s hand tightened on the edge of the tablet, but he quelled the surge of rage before he could snap the stupid thing in half. He closed out the browser window, then set the tablet aside. “You know nobody that matters thinks that, right?” he asked softly, rubbing a hand over Stiles’s back.

Stiles’s shoulders lifted in a shrug.

“Stiles,” Peter admonished. “Do I think that? Does my family think that? My family adores you.”

“Talia thought I wanted the bite,” Stiles said into the mattress.

Peter sighed. “She shouldn’t have made the offer when she did,” he said firmly, “and I can assure you she didn’t offer because she thought you were only with me to get it. If anything, that was her own selfish hope of avoiding the mixed marriage.”

Stiles rolled onto his side to face Peter, still hugging his pillow. “I hate that I care about that shit. I told myself I wasn’t going to care about it, I told myself I didn’t give a shit what the vultures said, but.. but, fuck, _why don’t they like me?_ ”

“Like has nothing to do with it, Stiles,” he murmured, scooting closer so he could pet Stiles’s hair. “They’re just out to get attention and sell subscriptions.”

“They didn’t do this to Marco,” Stiles argued. “Marco wears a flashy pocket square and, oh, _hey, everyone, pocket squares are in this season! Everyone go get yourself a new pocket square!”_ He waved his hands in front of the pillow theatrically. “I wear a tie that doesn’t match Talia’s hat and I’m trying to tear apart royal society with my bare hands.”

Peter moved up to the head of the bed, tugging Stiles up to sit curled against his chest. “It’s homophobia,” he said, not about to beat around the bush on the matter. “It’s specism.”

“It’s bullshit,” Stiles muttered, nuzzling into Peter’s chest. He’d worn a silk shirt for an early meeting with a wine exporter. Stiles held out his left hand, staring down at the ring on his finger. “I’m supposed to be happy right now. I’m supposed to be fucking, like, floating on the air, happy about getting engaged and getting married and instead I see one stupid article like that, and I just...”

Wrapping his arms around Stiles tightly, Peter said, “I know.” He kissed the top of his head. “You think I don’t know? There can be a hundred positive articles, and the one that sticks in your head is the nasty one. I went through this when I came out – you know I did. I don’t read the papers anymore, and do you know why?”

Huffing, because Peter had already told him a hundred times not to read the tabloids, Stiles looked up at him. “Because you’ll just drive yourself crazy?”

Peter kissed his forehead. “No. Because you told me not to.”

A little furrow appeared between Stiles’s brows. “When?”

“The night we met.” Peter rubbed his thumb over the furrow. “You made me promise that when I came out, I would kick anyone to the curb that wasn’t a delight about it. And, you know, the press was not a delight about it.”

Stiles stared up at him, a smile slowly fighting its way through the pout on his face. He groaned. “God, stop throwing my own good advice back at me. It’s annoying.” He sat up a little and nuzzled into Peter’s neck.He nipped at the skin there, just a tease. “I love you,” he muttered, as if thoroughly inconvenienced by the fact.

“Even when I get on your nerves?” Peter prompted.

Twisting in his arms, Stiles straddled him and kissed his lips. “Especially then.”

They made out for a long while, lazily shedding their clothes until Stiles sat bare in his lap, a hand wrapped loosely around both of their cocks while Peter pumped two fingers into his ass. Stiles pulled away with a shuddering breath that usually meant he was too distracted to focus on kissing anymore. Peter wrapped his free hand around the back of Stiles’s neck, keeping him close so their noses pressed together.

“How do you want to come?” Peter asked, voice low. He curled his fingers, and Stiles arched his back with a whine.

“Like this,” Stiles decided, rocking back against his hand and stroking them a little faster. “I wanna come like this, then I want you to come on my face.”

Peter ducked to press kisses along Stiles’s throat, working down to scrape teeth along his collarbone, then finally bit at one of his nipples. Stiles leaned back, his free hand braced on the bed between Peter’s legs as he rode his fingers.

“Yes, yes, yes. Fuck, Peter. Fuck, m’gonna -” His voice broke off as he came with a shiver, hand still stroking the both of them, using his come as lube now.

Once he had come down, Peter nudged him onto his back and crawled over him, straddling his chest. “You made a mess of me, darling,” he purred. “Are you going to clean it up?”

Stiles stretched his arms over his head. “I’m royalty now, I don’t have to clean.”

Peter gave him an exasperated look. “You know, for a future trophy husband, your bedroom talk could use some work,” he teased.

“Fuck my face?” Stiles offered, batting his lashes.

“Better,” Peter conceded. He dragged the head of his cock over Stiles’s lower lip. “Lazy, but better.”

“Lazy!” Stiles huffed. “Excuse you, I am catering to your alpha male instincts. I am alluringly vulnerable. I have -”

“Stiles?”

“Yes?”

“Arguing is for foreplay, and I can’t fuck your mouth while you’re talking.”

Stiles scowled at him, but he opened his mouth wide and dragged his tongue along the underside of Peter’s cockhead. With a grin, Peter leaned forward onto his hands and knees and slipped into the soft heat of Stiles’s mouth. He rocked his hips down in slow, uneven thrusts so Stiles could never be quite sure how much he was going to get. Finally, Stiles tightened his lips around him, moaned, and _sucked_. Peter’s knees nearly gave out, which would probably have resulted in a very difficult to explain injury for Stiles.

Peter continued thrusting shallowly, groaning and dropping down onto an elbow. With one hand freed up, he stroked Stiles’s hair, tugging lightly and winning an answering moan. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmured. He could feel his body tightening, nearly at the edge. When he couldn’t hold off any longer, Peter sat up again. He slipped out of Stiles’s mouth and started jerking himself over his face with short, quick strokes.

“Fuck yeah, please. Mark me up. Make me smell like you,” Stiles encouraged, stroking Peter’s thighs with both hands. Peter came with a low moan, watching as he streaked Stiles’s face with white.

Before his legs could really give out, Peter shifted and dropped onto his back on the bed, the opposite direction of Stiles, so his head was next to Stiles’s hip.

After a moment, Stiles swatted at his abdomen. “Peter, it’s in my eyelashes. Get a washcloth.”

Peter looked down and saw that, yes, Stiles had come in his eyelashes. “I don’t know,” he mused. “That look is really catering to my alpha male instincts.”

“Oh my god, I hate you.”

“It’s alluringly vulnerable,” he continued.

“You’re literally the worst. I’ll wipe my face on the bedspread. Mrs. Larson will poison us both.”

Peter laughed and sat up, leaning over to kiss Stiles’s lips. “Alright, alright.”

“ _Lazy_ ,” Stiles huffed as Peter ventured into the en suite bathroom for a washcloth. “Is that any way to speak to your betrothed?”

“I call it like I see it,” Peter called back over the sound of the water as he wet the cloth. He walked back in and found Stiles hadn’t moved at all. He knelt on the bed and carefully dabbed at Stiles’s eyes, then wiped the rest of his face with the same soft touch.

Stiles blinked his eyes open and stared up at Peter, expression a little dreamy. He got that way sometimes, in between the joking and bickering. He looked at Peter like he never wanted to look at anything else.

“You know, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” Peter murmured.

“I know,” he agreed. Stiles caught him by the wrist, pulling the cloth from his hand before lifting Peter’s hand to his mouth. He kissed each knuckle, then rubbed his face against them. “I’ve been thinking about colors,” he said, “for the wedding.”

Peter settled next to him on the bed. “Tell me.”


	4. The Wedding

**May 2018**

“Not that close,” Laura fussed, leaning forward and grabbing Stiles’s shoulders to shift him away from Peter’s body. Peter started to pull his arm back, but she clicked her tongue and grabbed his wrist to keep it in place. “There. Comfortable, affectionate, but not intimate.”

“God forbid the public should suspect we have sex,” Peter drawled, shooting her a cold smile.

His niece scowled at him. “Don’t do that smile during the interview. That’s your murder smile.”

“How else am I supposed to smile under these conditions?” he snapped.

Stiles reached over with both hands and pressed them to Peter’s cheeks, pushing upwards so the corners of his mouth lifted. “Just think about how many assholes are going to be upset about this interview,” he advised, “and how I’m gonna blow you in the limo on the way home.”

“Stiles!” Laura hissed. She waved her clipboard at him, looking over her shoulder at the few crew members milling about the set. “Great, that’s going to end up in a tabloid…”

Peter laughed, not sure if it was Stiles’s absurd behavior or Laura’s upset that wrung it out of him. “Laura, come on. I know how to do an interview. _Stiles_ knows how to do an interview.”

“And they’ve never gone badly for you before,” she shot back with acid. She sighed and straightened up, looking down at their placement on the interview couch like she was tempted to fix something else. Instead, she just shifted her clipboard in her hands. “We’ve confirmed all of the questions, so there shouldn’t be any surprises. Stick to what we talked about and try not to get cute?”

“We’ll be on our best behavior,” Stiles assured her. Peter didn’t hear a blip in his heartbeat, which meant Stiles truly believed the dirty lie he had just told.

Peter rolled his eyes and waved her off, watching her retreat to the other side of the studio just as Leanne Mitchell, entertainment journalist and professional terror, stepped in. She had been the interviewer for Peter’s infamous coming out, and he suspected she was harboring a vendetta under that ridiculous pile of bleach-blond curls.

“Are we ready to roll? We’ll start with introductions,” she called as the crew members scrambled.

The first five minutes went by uneventfully. They recounted the proposal for her, which they had already done for half a dozen different news outlets. Peter noticed that Stiles had a bit of a script down for how he told it now, repeating the same phrases each time. Part of him wondered if the magic and joy of that memory grew thinner with each poised, practiced retelling.

“Now, the venue has gotten quite a bit of attention,” Leanne said. “Most people were expecting the ceremony to take place at a druidic temple, either Temple of Blodeuwedd, where most of your family has been married, or perhaps Gwyddion Temple in San Francisco. There was even speculation that you might choose a human house of worship for Stiles.”

He and Stiles had both had a good laugh over those news articles when the PR department presented them. They didn’t even specify _which_ human religion they purported Stiles to follow, as if they were all equally nonessential and absurd.

“So why a non-religious venue?” Leanne asked. “Why the winery?”

“Well, when you own a wedding venue...” Stiles joked, and Peter squeezed his shoulder, silently reining him in before he could wander too far off-script. He couldn’t help the grin, though.

“We spend a lot of time there, and it’s a beautiful location,” Peter explained. “We like that it’s a little more secluded – a royal wedding is always going to have a lot of flash and publicity, but we want there to be a sense of…” He searched for the right word, glancing off to the side.

“Intimacy,” Stiles filled in. “We want it to feel like _our_ wedding, not just a royal wedding.”

Peter turned and kissed the side of Stiles’s head. Laura would like that.

“Besides, Peter really loves the winery,” Stiles continued. “It’s his labor of love. It wouldn’t feel right if it wasn’t there with us.” He was quite good at these soundbites when he put his mind to it.

“It does look like a spectacular location. I think we have some photos we can run for the viewers,” Leanne said, looking toward the camera. She paused, then turned back to them.

“And will you have a druid officiating the ceremony or will you try for something more… multicultural?” she ventured, fishing for some sign that Stiles was going to muck up royal tradition with weird human shit.

“My family isn’t very religious,” Stiles explained. “My parents were both raised Eastern Orthodox, but I think I went to mass maybe five times as a kid.”

“Our pack emissary will be officiating, as he did for my sister and niece,” Peter added.

Looking unperturbed by the lack of scandal, Leanne changed the subject. “So, Peter, tell me a bit about your suit. We all know you have quite the _refined_ fashion sense.”

Peter couldn’t glance over at Stiles, could only pray that he wasn’t making a derisive face at her words. “It’s slate gray, and we’ve found a really talented embroidery house out of Los Angeles, so it will be embroidered with navy...” He went on about the designer, the ethical manufacturing, the locally sourced artistry. All of the bits Laura had put bold and underlined on his talking points.

Leanne turned to Stiles with a sweet smile, and Peter smelled blood in the metaphorical water. “Of course, the fashion questions here are a bit different than your typical royal wedding. What will you be wearing, Stiles?”

Not ‘tell me about your suit.’ Not ‘will you be wearing the same thing?’

“Any surprises?” she added.

Peter knew it was about to go sideways before Stiles even opened his mouth, but he made no attempt to rein him in this time.

“Well, you know, I _was_ gonna go for the white dress, but I just don’t have the hips for it,” he said. “Besides, have you seen how pale I am?” He held out an arm and pulled up his sleeve in demonstration. “They’ve got flash filters for the werewolf eyes, but nothing’s going to tame all of this pasty goodness dressed in white.” Peter bit his lip to stifle a laugh.

On the other side of the room, he could hear the clipboard in Laura’s hands creaking under the strain of her grip. She thought this was going to be over quickly, or was hoping. Peter knew better, could hear the way Stiles’s tone was ramping up as the indignation and sarcasm and pettiness churned at one another. Once he got going, he would keep going until stopped.

“ _Plus_ , there’s all that historical nonsense with white being for virgins -”

The clipboard snapped in half.

“So obviously that was out. Then I started thinking, you know, what’s the opposite of that? And then I thought, _leather_.” Peter’s battle against his composure was steadily losing ground, his shoulders and chest shaking in silent hysterics. “Leather pants, leather vest – no shirt, of course.” Leanne’s mouth had dropped open, and it seemed she had forgotten how to close it again.

Peter cracked and had to press the side of his fist to his mouth to stifle it. “Sweetheart,” he chastised through laughter, figuring he really should cut this off before Stiles dug himself deeper than even he wanted to go.

Stiles glanced at Peter, sheepish but not half as sheepish as he should have looked, considering. He shook his head and sighed. “I have a matching suit. It’s navy with gray embroidery.”

God, this was a disaster. Talia was going to flay him alive. Peter, for the life of him, couldn’t get his laughter under control. “Why don’t you -” he attempted, but he was still laughing as he spoke. He tried again, still laughing, but powered through. “Why don’t you ask us about catering?” he suggested.

Beside him, Stiles snorted and abruptly broke into wheezing hysterics of his own.

It was the last wedding interview Laura would ask them to do.

* * *

  
  


“Oh my god, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking,” Stiles laughed against Peter’s shoulder. “I thought I was going to drop that fucking candle and burn down the altar.”

They had retreated to the cottage on the east end of the vineyard, where he and Stiles would get thirty whole minutes to catch their breath between the ceremony and the reception. Cameras had followed them on the winding path through the rows of grapevines. Peter, for once, had barely noticed, Stiles’s hand warm and firm in his own, both of them tense and exuberant and giddy with relief all at once.

The second the door closed behind them, Stiles pressed into Peter’s space, clinging to him with hysterical little giggles.

For once, Peter didn’t find himself wondering how the optics had turned out, if anyone had made an inappropriate expression during the ceremony, if he hadn’t looked regal enough or if the personalized vows would be well-received.

“Come here,” he said, tugging Stiles over to the sitting area. He pulled back just long enough to take off his suit jacket. Someone had set out a rack with coat hangers for them. God forbid they should arrive to the reception with wrinkled fabric. They sat curled together on the couch, quietly willing their jitters away. “So how does it feel?” Peter asked.

“You mean aside from the crippling anxiety?” Stiles joked. He snuggled in and kissed the spot just below Peter’s earlobe. “Not very different. Just feels like being with you. Feels normal.”

“Yeah, but now you can’t get rid of me,” Peter reminded him with a smirk.

“I already couldn’t get rid of you.” He settled his head against Peter’s shoulder, and Peter could hear his thudding heartbeat steadying.

* * *

  
  


It seemed like hardly any time had passed at all before an attendant came to fetch them for the reception. The cameras trailed after them on the walk to the main hall. Peter could scarcely recognize the place under the layers of fabric and flowers and chandeliers. The decorator had really gone all out to turn his chic, modern winery into a traditional, romantic royal venue.

Peter expected polite clapping as they entered the room, but Stiles’s guests broke into raucous hoots and hollers that at first seemed to startle the royals. Then, after a moment, he heard a few familiar voices breaking out in cheers as well – Derek, Laura and Marco, Cora. Talia couldn’t, he knew, but she grinned at him like she wanted to all the same.

The lights dimmed, leaving them with nothing but the summer sun as it streamed through the plate glass windows. The music came up.

A few months before they got together, Peter had showed up at Stiles’s apartment one night to the sound of The Four Tops crooning _I’m in a Different World_. Stiles had been at the stove in a pair of jeans and an apron, waving a spatula as he sung along. He turned and grinned at Peter, still swinging his hips and dancing like an idiot.

“This is a change of pace for you,” Peter had commented. Normally, Stiles listened to club music, pop, electronica.

“My dad and I found a bunch of my mom’s old CDs when I was helping him move,” Stiles explained. He removed a pancake from the skillet, then turned the stove off. “She was obsessed with Motown. I’ve been listening to it for, like, three days straight.”

The song ended, and soft piano came on, a song Peter didn’t recognize.

“Oh man, she loved this one,” Stiles sighed. He turned and wandered toward Peter.

Then, Gladys Knight’s soft voice joined the music, singing,

“ _I've had my share of life's ups and downs_

_But fate's been kind, the downs have been few_

_I guess you could say that I've been lucky_

_Well, I guess you could say that it's all because of you”_

Stiles’s arms settled over his shoulders, and Peter gripped his hips, helpless to do anything but sway with the music while Stiles sang along. It felt silly, but then Stiles looked him in the eye as he sang, _“Cause you're the best thing that ever happened to me.”_ And it didn’t feel silly at all.

The first dance song would be called out in most of the endless blog lists of ‘surprises and unforgettable moments’ from their wedding. Another that made the majority of the lists came just after dinner.

Talia, seated at Peter’s right, stood and tapped her fork against her glass. She hardly needed the noise, though. The moment she rose, every eye went immediately to her, the room falling silent within moments.

“I want, once again, to thank everyone for being here to celebrate with us today,” she said, her tone poised. “Peter, Stiles, I can’t express the joy I feel when I see the two of you together, how happy you make one another. I know it’s traditional for wedding gifts to be opened after the wedding, but I have one which doesn’t come wrapped in paper. If you don’t mind, I would like to present it to you now.”

Peter lifted his eyebrows at her and nodded. He had a pretty good idea of where this was going. There had been quite a lot of buzz over whether Talia would carve out part of the crown’s territory for Peter and Stiles or whether she would leave them without titles beyond succession to the crown. There had also been quite a lot of talk over whether two men could hold the same title.

An attendant came to Talia’s side and supplied her with a scroll of paper, tied with a blue ribbon. “Peter, Stiles, it is my honor to grant you title over a part of our family’s territory. And it seems fitting to make the announcement here, in a place you have made yourselves so much at home.”

It was Santa Rosa, then. A small city, to be sure, but notable enough in name that it would give some measure of respectability.

“By my decree, I now grant to both of you the title Duke of Sonoma County.”

Peter’s jaw dropped. Not just Santa Rosa but the whole county. While Talia was the queen of the entirety of the United States and Canada, the crown held direct rule over ten counties surrounding San Francisco Bay. By land area, Sonoma County was the largest of the ten. He looked over at Stiles and found the same stunned look on his face.

Belatedly, Peter lurched to his feet, and leaned in to take the paper and kiss his sister on the cheek. “Thank you,” he murmured.

* * *

  
  


Of the blogs and tabloid articles and Youtube videos recounting the surprises and touching moments, their ending of their vows made an appearance in every one.

He and Stiles stood at the altar, hands held together, wrapped in a white cloth. They had gone back and forth, exchanging the vows one by one.

_Do you promise to protect me?_

_I do. Do you promise to protect me?”_

_I do._

_Do you promise to be patient?_

Finally, Peter said, “Do you promise to love me always, even when I get on your nerves?”

And Stiles grinned and squeezed his hands inside of the cloth. “Peter, I promise to love you always. Especially when you get on my nerves. Do you promise to love me always, even when I get on your nerves?”

“Especially then.”

* * *

  
  


The real surprising moment, which none of the tabloids would learn about, came at the end of the night, when half of the guests had retired to their hotels or homes. A buffet of Indian food had been brought in as a late-night snack. Stiles was sitting with some of his friends, his head resting on Kira’s shoulder as he stuffed pakora into his face with half-lidded eyes.

Peter felt as tired as Stiles looked. He had been warned that wedding night sex was essentially a myth. Talia had advised him to leave the comforter off the bed in the cottage. By the time everything was over, they would be too exhausted to even pull back the blankets.

“Peter,” said a voice to his left, and he forced himself to smile as he looked up. Archduchess Iris was his great-aunt, on his father’s side. She had been around quite a lot when he was a child, but less so since his parents passed in his twenties. He remembered her as being old back then, her face creased with wrinkles, hair gray and white. The only difference now was that she had lost the bits of gray.

“Aunt Iris,” he greeted, standing and kissing her cheek. “I’m so glad you could make it. And impressed that you’re still out partying at this hour.” Most of the older guests had made their exits already.

She smiled and sat next to him. “Well, I wanted to give you my personal congratulations before I leave,” she told him, and Peter couldn’t help but feel touched. Most of the older generation had seemed affronted or at least mildly uncomfortable since his coming out. Marrying a commoner human hadn’t helped matters. “You seem very happy.”

“I am,” he agreed. “Thank you. It means a lot, knowing my family is happy for me.”

“It’s been a difficult adjustment, for a lot of the family,” she conceded. “They worry what it means for our species, for our titles, our culture.” She patted his hand. “They’re not malicious people. They just fear change.” Iris sighed and reached into her purse, pulling out a small slip of paper. “I know that you will be able to uphold our way of life as well as anyone, Peter. You’re a good man.”

She passed him the paper, and Peter felt his heart lurch as he looked it over. _Epona Surrogacy Services: surrogacy specialists for weres, kitsune, and others._ He looked up at her, not sure what to say.

“You didn’t think you would get out of the baby nagging just because you’re gay, did you?” she teased.

“Honestly?” Peter breathed, looking back down at the card. “I sort of did.”

* * *

  
  


As Talia had predicted, they barely managed to get out of their suits after they retired to the cottage for the night. They slept until nearly noon the next day, lazy and warm in the soft light that filtered through the curtains. Stiles lay on top of him, rutting against him with two of Peter’s fingers curled inside of him. He came with a quiet moan against Peter’s lips. Once he had recovered, he sat up and rode him at an agonizingly slow pace until Peter thought he would lose his mind.

“Your first act as my husband is to torture me,” Peter whined. He tried again to grip Stiles’s hips, though Stiles had already batted his hands away twice. This time, he grabbed both of Peter’s hands and laced their fingers together.

“You knew what you were getting yourself into,” Stiles replied.

Afterward, they opted to shower separately, if only because they had a plane to catch that afternoon. Peter was still rinsing the shampoo from his hair when Stiles came back into the bathroom and leaned against the counter.

“Surrogacy services, huh?” he called over the sound of the water.

Peter froze, then hastily finished rinsing before sticking his head out of the shower door. “My Aunt Iris gave that to me last night,” he explained. “She said we weren’t going to get out of the baby nagging simply because we’re both men.”

Stiles stared down at the card thoughtfully. “And this...” He waved the card toward Peter. “This is something you want to do?”

He hesitated. It was a big discussion, one that they had touched on in more vague terms. A conversation he thought they would start having much, much later than this. The last they had left it, they were both open to the idea, but neither of them felt that they _needed_ children in their lives to be fulfilled. “I don’t know,” Peter admitted.

“Me neither,” Stiles agreed.

Peter reached back and turned the water off. He could use leave-in conditioner. Reaching for a towel, he suggested, “Would it be okay if we tabled this until after the honeymoon?”

Stiles’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Definitely.”

* * *

  
  


An attendant had left them a newspaper to read on their way to Bali. Peter glanced through it while Stiles played games on his computer.

Smiling, he nudged Stiles’s arm and turned the paper to show him the headline of the _Society_ section:

_**Princes Peter and Stiles Buck Tradition with Style** _


	5. The Adoption

**September 2019**

“Lady Danu’s is the largest adoption service for non-human children in the state. Which, as you can see, isn’t saying much,” Dot, the facility director, explained. She made a sweeping motion with her hand to indicate the relatively petite size of the facility. It was a large estate house, but certainly not large enough to hold more than a couple dozen children at a time. “Placements, of course, can be tricky for our kind, but we place exclusively with non-human or mixed families, and we have nearly unheard of retention rates for family placement.”

As they made their way through the front hall, Peter peeked into an empty room, which looked to be some sort of study room. There was a chalkboard on one wall, bookshelves on the opposite. The tables and chairs in the middle had bits of paint and marker stains.

Peter thought about all of the obscenely expensive furniture in their home and found himself horrified almost to the point of delight at the thought of little finger paint hand prints marring the wood.

Stiles squeezed his hand as he tugged him along to keep up. “What age ranges do you have?” he asked.

“We have a couple of teenagers at the moment, brother and sister, but that’s not typical,” Dot answered. She started up the wide wooden staircase. Teenage wolves would typically stay with their packs if any remained. Either they weren’t wolves or they had lost absolutely everyone. “They’ve taken over part of the basement so they can have their own space.”

Peter found himself wanting to ask about the teenagers, see if they needed some help. Maybe he could make arrangements for them. But that wasn’t what they were here for. This was the compromise: instead of surrogacy, they could adopt, so long as it was a werewolf baby.

“Eight through twelve are on that end of the hall,” Dot said, pointing toward a large set of French doors. “Four through eight next to them. Babies and toddlers have the largest space, over here.”

Lady Danu’s was partly funded by the druid’s council, Talia had explained as she gave him the pamphlet for the facility, but the majority of their funding came directly from the royal family. Their doors would be open to Peter and Stiles. There would be no wait list, no agony of false hope. One visit, and they could walk out with a bundle of joy that would satisfy both the family and the press.

Well, she hadn’t said it like that, but she may as well have.

* * *

  
  


She had broached the subject over brunch, just the two of them. Peter had known something unpleasant would come up – the last time they’d had brunch, just the two of them, had been after Stiles’s infamous leather rant.

“I heard you and Stiles have decided not to pursue surrogacy,” Talia had said over the soft scrape of her knife against porcelain. She lifted a bit of egg to her lips, staring him down while she chewed.

Peter nodded, resigned to let this argument happen. He reached for his wolfsbane mimosa, knowing he would need at least a bit of a buzz to get through. “We discussed it and decided it wasn’t for us,” he explained. “It doesn’t seem right, going to all of that trouble and expense to bring a child into the world when there are children already here, needing homes.”

“Adoption, then?”

“That’s the idea.”

She sighed, and Peter felt a vein in his temple throb in irritation.

“I don’t see why it should matter to you or anyone else,” he snapped.

Talia set her fork down and fixed him with a tired expression. “Of _course_ it matters, Peter. Our bloodline -”

Peter barked a laugh. “Our bloodline? Dear sister, I don’t know if you’ve gotten a good look at our family tree lately, but it’s practically overgrown. I’ve lost track of how many nieces and nephews I have these days.”

“You’ll adopt a werewolf, then?” she pressed.

Then it was Peter’s turn to set down his fork, letting it slam noisily against the table. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but my husband is a human. We may very well adopt a human.”

“ _Peter_ ,” she practically growled.

He raised his voice, couldn’t help it. “How are you talking to me like I’m being unreasonable when you’ve practically ordered me, as my alpha, to acquire a baby by any means necessary?”

Talia, stubbornly, infuriatingly, kept her voice calm, though condescending. “I know you’ve made it your personal _brand_ to challenge tradition at every turn. And might I remind you, I have been extremely accommodating to it thus far -”

Peter flashed his eyes at her. “Oh, yes,” he shouted, “you didn’t excommunicate me from the family for marrying a man! Have they put you up for sainthood yet, Your Majesty?”

She stood abruptly, her chair clattering to the ground as her eyes flared bright red.

As he felt himself involuntarily cower in response, Peter felt his rage boil down into a quiet resentment. Talia was his alpha and his monarch, but she was supposed to be his sister first. That she would pull this sort of tactic on him stung in a way he hadn’t been prepared for. “Really?” he asked, voice softer than he wanted it to be. “Over how Stiles and I start a family? That’s what you pull rank for?”

Talia softened, her eyes fading back to human. A servant hurried in and righted her chair for her. She sat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It should just be about you and Stiles – I know that – but it’s not. This world we live in, our position is more tentative than it seems. Peter, our traditions are more than media grabs and money. Humans fear us, instinctively. We are predators. We are stronger than them. We’re a threat.” Her words came gently. Practiced, but honest. “By all logical strategy, they should hunt us, eradicate us, as they did for centuries.”

“Like they still do in many parts of the world,” Peter conceded.

“Exactly.” She offered a weak smile. “And do you know why they don’t, here in this country?” He did, but ducked his head, signaling for her to continue. “Because our structure of monarchy gives us an appearance of structure, of stability. It makes our kind seem integrated and like less of a threat. We let them see into every corner of our lives, poke and prod and evaluate. We show them that we have nothing to hide, and they transfer that sense of trust to every member of our species.”

Peter had received lectures of similar flavor from their parents, but they hadn’t been so brutally honest. He lifted his eyes to meet Talia’s. “And you think that the species of mine and Stiles’s child will make so much difference to that balance?”

“No,” Talia admitted. She reached for her coffee. “But a member of the royal family that challenges our traditions at every turn? That might.”

* * *

  
  


So he and Stiles found themselves in the babies and toddlers wing of Lady Danu’s Home for Children. A caretaker sat in a rocking chair in the corner, bottle feeding an infant. Another stood by the cribs, a baby in each arm, rocking and humming. It felt strange to Peter – no, downright bizarre – to come here and pick out a baby like one picked out a pair of shoes at a clothing store.

“I’ll leave you two to discuss for a little while,” Dot said. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I’ll be just down the hall – anyone here can come fetch me for you.”

Once she was out of the room, Stiles stepped in front of Peter with a slightly panicked expression. “I have no idea how to do this,” he whispered.

“Do I look like I know?”

“Are we just supposed to… pick one? It feels weird.”

One of the caretakers glanced up at them, clearly listening in, and Peter huffed a sigh, glancing around the room. “Let’s just… try to settle in for a few minutes?”

This wing of the home was rather large. They had come into the section for the youngest babies. Another set of doors lead through to a play room for the toddlers where a handful of drooling, chubby little were-tots sat around a kitchen play set, gnawing at plastic fake fruit and miming cooking with a sauce pan.

Peter wandered over to them, giving a wave. One little boy stared up at him with wide eyes, most of his own fist crammed into his mouth. It was refreshing, at least, to not be greeted with a bow.

He glanced around to see where Stiles had ended up and found him sitting on a play mat where an older girl with poorly brushed hair sat with a baby girl, maybe a year old, propped up on a pillow. The older one wore overalls and had a toy dinosaur in her hand. “Who?” she asked Stiles, a bit rudely.

“I’m Stiles. Is it okay if I sit with you?” Stiles had already sat down, but seemed to be second-guessing it under the girl’s intense scrutiny. When she didn’t answer, Stiles asked, “What’s your name?”

She turned back to the baby, ignoring Stiles. “So T-Rex can eat this guy,” she explained to the baby, holding up a smaller dinosaur toy, “but dog is too big.” Peter’s eyes settled on a big stuffed dog next to her and smiled.

“That’s Malia.”

Peter jumped a little, not having noticed the caretaker coming up behind him. He turned and smiled at her. “Isn’t she a little old to be in here?”

“She’s five,” the woman agreed, “but she’s been having some trouble fitting in with the kids in her age group. She’s great with the babies, though.”

“Rawr! I am hungry!” Malia said, rocking the T-Rex back and forth.

Stiles stretched and grabbed another toy off the floor and offered it up. “Can he eat this?”

Malia stared at him suspiciously for a moment, then broke into a bright smile. “Yeah!” She snatched the toy out of his hand and fed it to the tyrannosaurus with delighted violence.

Laughing softly, Peter watched as she slowly accepted Stiles into her game. “How long has she been here?”

“A couple of months.” The caretaker hesitated. “She’s not a wolf,” she told him. “She’s a were-coyote. There were some… safety concerns. With the mother. She was removed from her custody.”

The mother-child dynamic for coyotes was a troubled one, Peter knew. Their powers were passed down during pregnancy. He frowned. “Thank you for explaining,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Tracy. And I know who you are, of course.”

Peter ducked his head and smiled. “Of course.”

He made his way over to Stiles, watching the way his face lit up as Malia’s game devolved into a toy massacre. The baby seemed just as fascinated with her, taking toys as Malia handed them to her, then sucking on them.

Talia would think this was just more of his defiance, more of his stubborn desire to fight tradition. But maybe this could be a compromise on a compromise. Not a baby, no, but young enough. Not a werewolf, no, but not human.

Peter crouched beside Stiles and nudged his shoulder. “What do you think?”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him in surprise. “Really?” He glanced at Malia, then back to Peter. “She’s not...” Not a baby, he meant. He didn’t even know about her being a were-coyote.

“I don’t care,” Peter assured him.

Stiles reached over and brushed his fingers against the nape of Peter’s neck, scenting him. He bit his lip, then turned back to the Malia. “This is my husband Peter,” he told her. “Can he play, too?”

Peter waved at her. “Hi, Malia.”

Malia sniffed at him very obviously, her little nose scrunching as she did so. “You have to bring a food for T-Rex,” she told him, her brow furrowing and eyes flashing blue. He knew already that she would be an absolute terror. Forget finger paint on the nice furniture – she would rip it to shreds.

“Fair enough,” he agreed.

* * *

In one of her less thoughtful attempts at reassuring Peter and Stiles about fatherhood, Laura had told them, “You know, a lot of what people talk about when they talk about being ‘ready’ for parenthood, it just doesn’t apply in our world.”

They had been playing bocce in Laura’s garden, Marco lining up his bowl.

Stiles huffed a laugh. “Why, because we don’t have a choice?”

“No, you absolutely have a choice,” Laura said, and Peter had wondered if she really believed it. “But a lot of the things new parents struggle with – the late nights, the feedings, the expense – we don’t have to worry about that. You would have a wet nurse and a couple of nannies. You already have staff for meals and laundry.”

Peter knew she didn’t mean it to sound as callous as she did. As much as she had inherited her mother’s leadership skills, her poise and ferocity, she had inherited that emotionally tone-deaf streak as well.

They watched Marco bowl his shot and shoved his hands in his pockets. “That doesn’t sound much like parenting to me,” Stiles admitted.

A few short months later found Stiles in their daughter’s room, calling for their nanny, yelling, “Oh my god, _where is Hayden_?” while Malia wailed like an air raid siren, shrill and with a truly spectacular lung span.

Peter rushed down the hall to find Stiles kneeling in front of their daughter, frantically trying to extricate a hair brush from the back of her head while she writhed and screamed.

“Malia, please hold still!” he pleaded. “Pulling is just going to make it hurt more!”

“HURTS!” she shrieked.

“I know, I know, I just -”

“We gave Hayden the day off, remember?” Peter knelt down on the other side of Malia. He reached for her and, though she flinched back at first, managed to press his fingers to her cheek. One tiny, barely-there tendril of black crept up his fingertip. “Now, Malia, that barely hurts at all,” Peter chided. “What are you throwing a fuss about?”

She sobbed loudly and thrashed away from them both. Stiles finally gave up and let go, letting her run away with the hairbrush dangling from the back of her head. Malia threw herself onto her bed to sob into her arms like a distressed Jane Austin heroin.

Stiles held his hands out helplessly, looking to Peter for confirmation that, yes, this was the most absurd show of melodrama this house had ever seen. It was saying something, seeing as _Stiles_ lived there.

They both got up and approached the bed. Peter sat on the edge, not reaching for her just yet, since she was still heaving angry sobs against her comforter. “Malia, sweetheart,” he cooed. “You’ve gotten yourself all worked up. Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

It took a moment, but she sucked in one long, shuddering breath. Peter smiled and reached over to rub a hand over her back. Instead of settling, though, she fucking _growled_ at him.

“Malia,” Stiles started to chide, because they had _talked_ about the growling.

But then her whole body started to tremble uncontrollably. In a blink, Peter found a coyote pup curled up on the bed where his daughter had been, her dress pooled around her. The hairbrush, liberated for lack of hair, fell off to the side.

Peter looked up at Stiles and smirked, shaking his head. She did have quite the flair for the dramatic. “That bad, hm?” he asked, teasing a little.

She growled again.

They were supposed to take her to Talia’s today. His sister had come over to meet Malia a few days after she moved in, but the poor girl had still been reeling from the change, too shy, and they let her retreat up to her room to play before more than a few minutes had passed.

Today, she would finally be meeting the rest of the family.

Peter slid down the zip on the back of the dress, and Malia immediately began to wriggle free of it. Her little dress shoes had dropped to the floor at the edge of the bed. He had to help tug her hind legs free of the tights, though. “Alright, come on, then,” he said, scooping her up off the bed. She growled again and he pressed a finger to the top of her nose. “None of that, now.”

Her eyes shone blue at him, but she settled. Peter passed her off to Stiles, who carefully folded her tail down to hold her against his chest with her front paws curled over his shoulder. “You know, you’re much more snuggly like this,” Stiles commented. “We’ll just have to work on human cuddles, okay?”

“What are the chances we convince her to shift back before we have to leave?” Peter asked doubtfully.

Stiles shook his head. “Hey, if anyone can appreciate a full shift, it’s Talia, right?”

* * *

  
  


“ _ **Princess Malia Bit The Queen!”**_

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. The tablet was balanced on his knees. Beneath the headline, a photo of Malia waving at the camera. Beside it, a stock photo of a coyote. A real coyote. An animal.

“Who leaked this?” he growled.

Stiles shifted closer to him on the bed, nudging their shoulders together. “Come on, Peter. She’s five – who’s actually going to care? It’s a little funny, isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” Peter gritted out. His mind flashed back to the talk Talia had given him before they went to the children’s home, about the games of public perception they were playing. He sighed and looked over at Stiles. “Malia’s species is nearly extinct outside of Mexico, and they’re still hunted like animals in parts of Mexico. Most humans in the US and Canada have never met a were-coyote.” He tapped the screen. “This is the impression they’ll form of them. That they’re wild, violent, dangerous. Uncivilized. They’ll take this one little girl, and they’ll extrapolate it to every were-coyote. Or they’ll say that clearly she was abused – that were-coyotes must be unfit parents.”

Horror overtook Stiles’s expression, his eyes moving back to the article as if seeing it for the first time. “Fuck. They can’t – she’s a little kid. They can’t put that on her.”

“They will.” Peter rubbed at the back of his neck. He felt wrung-out. It was only ten o’clock. He and Stiles had been getting to bed earlier, so they would have time to start their day before Malia woke up. “God, what were we thinking?” he muttered.

Stiles slipped his hand up the back of Peter’s neck, fingers sliding through the curls on the back of his head to scratch his scalp. “We had no way of knowing it would get leaked,” he reassured. “It happened in Talia’s house, for god’s sake.”

“Not that,” Peter sighed, leaning into the touch. “I mean, what were we thinking, bringing a child into this life at all?”

The scratches stopped. “Peter,” Stiles breathed. “You’re not saying...”

Oh, god. Peter pulled away so he could look Stiles in the eye, wanting to be very clear on this. “No,” he said firmly. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t even think about...” He couldn’t say it, couldn’t say, _returning her_ , like Malia was an ill-fitting jacket and not their family.

“Okay, good,” Stiles said, still looking panicked by the idea.

“But I still wonder,” Peter explained, “what gave us the right, you know? To put her in all of this mess? She never asked for any of this. She never asked to grow up endlessly scrutinized by these vultures.”

Stiles’s expression softened. He reached out and cupped Peter’s cheek. “Neither did you.”

“It’s different,” Peter insisted.

“Why, because you’re Hale blood?” Stiles challenged, though his tone stayed gentle. “Because you’re over it? You’re clearly not.”

His husband’s ability to call him on his bullshit was one of the reasons Peter had fallen in love with him. It was also deeply, deeply annoying. “I just...” He closed his eyes, trying to get his anxieties into some form coherent enough to be voiced. He settled on: “I don’t want her to grow up resenting me for bringing her into this world.”

“Don’t you mean ‘resenting us’?” Stiles cocked his head to the side.

“I brought you into it, too.”

Stiles glared at him. “Peter Hale,” he scolded.

“I know, I know, you chose this,” Peter agreed.

“And, again, I’m the only one in this household that did,” Stiles reminded him. With a sigh, Stiles caught him around the shoulders and reeled him in until Peter was snuggled against his side, head on Stiles’s shoulder. He was quiet a moment before he asked, “Did you resent your parents?”

Peter didn’t talk much about them, and Stiles respected that, understood that Peter had never felt close with them, that they hadn’t been warm people. The press brought them up sometimes, usually around the anniversary of the accident. A helicopter crash in the Rockies. Conspiracy theories had flown about for months, most insisting that militant anti-were hunters had shot the helicopter down. When they finally found the black box, it revealed nothing but a simple engine malfunction.

Peter had been just shy of his thirteenth birthday. He remembered how numb he felt, walking down the street in the funeral procession with a stiff expression as the public wailed in mourning around him. He remembered thinking that these people, these strangers, had been allowed more emotional closeness with his parents than he had. They had owned his parents in a way Peter had never been allowed.

“I did,” Peter admitted quietly. “Sometimes I think I still do.”

Stiles pressed two fingers under his chin to tip his head up, and kissed his lips, soft. “We’ll protect her, okay?” he said. “Whatever it takes. We’ll make sure it isn’t so bad for her.”

Letting out a breath, Peter leaned up and kissed him again, then again until he was pressed flat on his back on the bed. Hovering over him, Peter took in the soft flush on Stiles’s cheeks, the sweet adoration in his eyes, the gentle curve of his mouth. “I love you,” he murmured. “More than I can ever say.”


	6. The Exodus

**June 2020**

Malia, to put it mildly, was a very particular child. They didn’t mind terribly. After all, he and Stiles were very particular adults.

Peter was, as Stiles had once said, “a neurotic of mind-boggling complexity.” He owned more hair and skin products than any one person had a right to, and swore up and down that he needed every single one. His closet was not a closet so much as it was a bedroom-sized shrine to his favorite designers. After Mrs. Larson retired, their new housekeeper nearly quit because Peter couldn’t help but point out flaws in the flavor palate and wine pairings at mealtimes. Stiles had to intervene and make peace with the poor woman, and Peter had agreed to “either make the damn menu himself or shut the fuck up.”

Stiles’s anxieties were harder to predict. Sometimes, in the heat of disaster, he kept himself together with a poised and capable grace, like he had the first night they met. Other times, he crumbled under the slightest pressure. For the entirety of the wedding planning process, every question or hiccup had the potential to send him into a debilitating panic. Peter forbade him to so much as look at the seating charts to prevent hyperventilation.

All of that was to say, they tried to be understanding toward Malia’s peculiarities.

She didn’t like crowds, and it took her a long time to warm up to people. Within a few months, she had become comfortable with most of their close family, as well as frequent guests like Scott and Allison. As she had at the children’s home, they found she got on better with children a little younger than herself. At first, they had assumed it was emotional regression, but Peter was starting to suspect it had more to do with being able to boss them around. Laura’s little ones hung on Malia’s every word, letting her dictate their games to the finest detail.

She hated shoes. Malia had disturbingly dexterous little toes, and she would poke them out the sides of her sandals, when they made the mistake of forcing her feet into sandals. They could never keep her in closed-toed shoes unless they laced practically to her knees, and she was starting to get more adept at taking those off, too.

She shifted between human and coyote the way some children took jackets on and off when they got cold or hot. This often left the two of them to trail after her, gathering up clothes as the coyote wriggled free of them. Or, worse, left the two of them sprinting after to redress her, while Malia strutted about like bare skin was the new fall fashion line.

Perhaps the hardest quirk to work around, though, was that Malia despised dresses. Anything girly, really. He and Stiles had come to realize that nothing could put their daughter in a sour mood faster than tights and a dress.

Day-to-day, it wasn’t a big deal. Her usual attire consisted of pants or overalls, brightly colored t-shirts, hoodie sweatshirts, jean jackets. She would occasionally latch onto something that he or Stiles wore and declare, “I want a shirt with buttons like dad!” Which meant she had an odd little collection of children’s business attire.

But when it came to formal events – royal events, of which there were many – they brought out the dresses, and it all went to hell.

“I HATE IT!” she screeched, swatting at the dress with her claws. Stiles pulled it back just in time to save it from a shredding.

“Malia, you put the claws away right now,” Stiles told her firmly. “That isn’t how we deal with a problem, and you know it.”

She tucked her hands under her armpits instead of retracting her claws, probably too worked up to do so. “I won’t wear it!” she said, volume still a bit too loud.

“Sweetheart, you get to be flower girl for Uncle Derek’s wedding,” Peter tried to reason. “Isn’t that a special enough occasion? Everyone is going to be dressed up.”

"Not in dresses!" she argued.

"Of course they are," Peter said, sitting on the edge of her bed and trying for a patient tone. "Auntie Laura and Cora will be in dresses."

Stiles stood beside him, holding the dress against his stomach. It really was a cute little thing: light blue with white flowers along the hem and waist. She had white dress shoes, a flower basket, and a tiara to go with it. Malia stared at it like it was the worst horror she could imagine. She looked at Stiles, then at Peter, then burst into tears.

Malia could skin her knee practically to the bone while playing and not so much as sniffle. When it came to things like this, though, the waterworks were almost inevitable.

Peter sighed and slid off the bed to kneel on the floor, tugging her in against his chest. It had taken some time after the adoption, but their daughter now not only accepted but actively sought out physical affection. She fell against his chest and pressed her face to his neck. “Sweetheart, what is it about the dress?” he asked, petting her hair. “Can you explain to me?”

Through shuddering breaths, she sobbed out, “Y-you and-and-and Da-Daddy won’t be in-in dresses.”

 _Oh_. Peter looked up and exchanged a meaningful glance with Stiles. They had been trying their best not to make any assumptions about Malia’s aggressive tomboy streak, but they had both been thinking about it.

Stiles set the dress aside and sat on the floor next to them. Peter nudged her into his lap so he could get off his knees and sit properly. “You know, if I could wear a dress with you to make you feel better, I would,” Stiles told her, and Peter knew he meant it. He had seen his husband in drag once, before they got together. He had been very drunk and unable to walk in his heels, but still swore up and down that he’d pulled it off like a pro.

Peter moved closer and took her hand before she could stick her thumb in her mouth. That _was_ a regressive habit, common enough in adoptions, but they were working on it. She hadn’t shifted, which was progress. Even a few of months ago, she would have shifted instead of allowing them to comfort her like this as a human.

“But Dad and I have to wear our suits,” Stiles explained. “Everyone’s clothes are already picked out.”

“It’s not fair,” she whined, sounding a little calmer.

Stiles sighed and made to pet her head, instead placing a hand over her ear, the other pressed to his chest. “Couldn’t we just get a little tux for her?” he asked, mostly mouthing the words with just a few syllables making it into the audible range.

Peter frowned and squeezed the back of Stiles’s neck. “You know where they’d go with that,” he whispered back. The daughter of the first openly gay royal couple, wearing a suit to a royal wedding. At best, they would consider it more defiance of royal tradition. At worst, some sort of indoctrination. Bigots would always grasp for the opportunity.

Stiles closed his eyes, jaw clenching visibly as he fought down his frustration. He stroked Malia’s hair.

“I wish you could wear a dress with me,” she murmured.

Then he met Peter’s eyes with a sharp, devious sort of look that absolutely spelled out trouble. He couldn’t possibly be thinking about dressing in _drag_ for Derek’s wedding. He smirked and pulled his phone out of his pocket, sliding through a menu and then lifting it to his ear as it rang.

“ _Hi Stiles_ ,” Laura greeted.

“How badly do you want Malia to wear this dress to the wedding?” he asked.

* * *

  
  


_**Prince or Princess? Stiles Wears Tiara to Royal Wedding** _

The article itself was hateful, but Peter kept opening it to look at the picture below the headline: Stiles walking into the temple in his tuxedo with Malia on his hip. She wore her blue dress, and, if he looked closely, Peter could see her little toes poking out the sides of her sandals. Perched atop both of their heads were matching white gold tiaras.

Peter hadn’t thought it possible to love a man as much as he had in that moment. Knowing the PR fallout, knowing that he would be mocked and ridiculed and called out for trying to “steal attention” from Derek’s wedding, he had strutted into that church with a smile on his face, waving jovially to the same reporters that would flay him alive in articles just moments later. It was better for him to take the heat for a bit of gender non-conformity than to let Malia fall under scrutiny.

As the car pulled up in front of the house, Peter looked up from his tablet and saw Hayden in the process of loading Malia into another car. He slid out of the back seat before the driver had come to a complete stop, waving an arm and calling, “Hold on!”

His meeting that afternoon had run a bit late. Usually, he was able to make it home in time to have dinner with Malia and Stiles and Hayden before Malia left for her piano lessons.

Hayden let Malia slip down to the ground, and she sprinted down the driveway to collide with Peter’s legs.

“Hey, peanut. Sorry I missed dinner.” He lifted her into his arms and rubbed his nose against her cheek to scent her. “Are you having a good day?”

“Yeah, we went fishing!” she said, holding his face in both hands.

Hayden was smiling, but rather conspicuously glancing at her watch. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when you get back from lessons, okay? You be good for Mr. Danny.”

He helped to get her into her car seat, then waved her off down the driveway. He lingered for a few minutes, catching up with Hayden to see if anything had come up during the day. Apparently, Malia had gotten bored with human fishing and decided to shift and try to bite the fish out of the water instead.

“Please tell me you got pictures.”

Hayden grinned. “I already emailed them.” She winked and headed for her car to go home.

Peter made his way inside and up to his and Stiles's bedroom, working on the buttons of his dress shirt as he went. He could hear the shower running in the en suite bathroom and, under the rush of the water, the sound of Stiles humming to himself. It took him a moment to place the song.

“ _Paw Patrol_?” he called as he walked past the bathroom to his closet.

“Don’t make fun,” Stiles yelled back. “It’s been stuck in my head all day. I’m going nuts.”

Peter didn’t rush getting undressed, carefully hanging his jacket and slacks in the closet, then depositing his shirts into the hamper. He heard the water shut off and stepped back into the bedroom just in time to admire Stiles’s bare ass as he made his way to the dresser.

“You weren’t thinking of getting dressed, were you?” Peter asked. He leaned against the door frame of the closet, nude with his arms folded over his chest.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder and licked his lips. He loved that his husband still looked at him like that, like he couldn’t help but check him out. Nodding toward the bed, Peter said, “Sit down on the edge.”

Peter would say that sex was the only time Stiles did as he was told, but even then he tended not to. Today, though, he listened. Once he had sat down, Peter stepped up to stand between his legs. Cradling Stiles’s jaw in his hand, he tipped his head back and kissed him languorously. Once he had Stiles looking properly hazy from kissing, he sank to his knees on the floor and took him into his mouth. He was still mostly soft at first, but stiffened quickly under the practiced strokes of Peter’s tongue.

Stroking his fingers restlessly through Peter’s hair, Stiles whined and bit his lip. “God, not that I’m – okay, I’m definitely not complaining here – but I can’t help but notice,” he started to ramble.

If he was talking this much, Peter still had some work to do. He pushed at Stiles’s stomach to push him flat on his back and took him in deeper until he hit the back of Peter’s throat.

Stiles grunted and lifted his hips a little, like he couldn’t help himself. “Can’t help but notice,” he continued, a little more out of breath, “this is like my fifth blowjob in as many days?”

Peter looked up at him and lifted an eyebrow, knowing Stiles would understand the unspoken, _And your point is?_

“Like I said, not complaining.” Peter pressed a dry finger to Stiles’s shower-soft hole, just giving him a bit of pressure. Stiles spread his legs. “Fuck. If I knew seeing me in women’s accessories would get you worked up like this,” he huffed.

Finally pulling off, Peter wiped his mouth and glared up at Stiles. “You know that’s not what it’s about,” he grumbled.

“You sure? You don’t want to order some stockings? Lace bustier?” Stiles teased.

Dragging his knuckle over Stiles’s perineum, Peter tilted his head, making a show of thinking about it.

Stiles kicked him clumsily, the side of his foot bumping into Peter’s elbow. “I know, I know,” he said. “You liked seeing me being protective.”

Peter licked up the length of Stiles’s cock, then continued up, kissing his stomach, his chest, his neck, until he finally found his way back to his lips. “I did,” he agreed. “Now are you going to shut up and let me suck you off?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed with a dopey grin.

He got the lube from the nightstand before he got back to it. Slipping a finger into Stiles as he worked him over with his mouth seemed to do the trick. He went pliant and nonverbal, whining rocking his hips restlessly between Peter’s mouth and his finger. When even the whines faded away, Peter knew he was about to come and hummed to give him that final push.

While Stiles came down from his orgasm, Peter climbed on top of him, straddling his waist and stroking himself with short, fast tugs. He was nearly there when Stiles’s brain seemed to come back online. “I just showered,” he pouted even as he slipped a hand over Peter’s to help finish him off.

Peter came with a growl, back bowed and eyes fixed on Stiles’s. He was sure his eyes must have flashed from the way Stiles shivered under him.

They cleaned up, then changed into sweats and made their way downstairs for tea. Malia would be back from her lesson in twenty minutes or so. Curled up together on the couch, Peter turned on his tablet, which was still open to that horrid article. He tapped on the picture so it expanded over the text. “I want this framed,” he declared.

Stiles smiled and kissed his temple. He was quiet for a few minutes, sipping at his tea. Then he said, “I’m worried about the next time.” Peter didn’t have to ask what he meant.

“It could just be a phase,” he said, and that was true. “It could just be more adjustment from the adoption. She’s over-identifying with us, trying to fit in with our family.”

Stroking his fingers through Peter’s curls, Stiles sighed. “Could be,” he agreed, but he didn’t sound comforted. “Could just be who… who Malia is.” Peter didn’t miss how he avoided the pronoun.

“In any case,” Peter murmured, “we can’t leave her to figure it out with cameras hounding her every step.” What choice did they have, though?

* * *

  
  


_**Princes Peter and Stiles Will Renounce Titles, Leave Royal Family** _

* * *

  
  


“Boy, oh, boy, you really are living like commoners now, aren’t you?” The sheriff stood in front of the new house with his hands on his hips and let out a low whistle.

“We renounced our titles, not our bank accounts,” Peter replied loftily.

The house was, he had to concede, maybe a bit more than a family of three strictly required. They had visitors often enough, though, to justify the numerous guest rooms. And was it really a family of three when you took into account a live-in housekeeper and groundskeeper? They both worked from home frequently, so they each needed a separate office. If Peter’s happened to double as a library, well, at least it wasn’t a separate library. Malia really had taken to horseback riding, so a modest stable was completely reasonable.

Stiles slapped a hand on his father’s shoulder with a grin. “Relax, dad. You’ve got a separate cabin on the back of the property. And the pond is stocked with fish.”

Peter glanced back and caught a flash of fur darting off down the driveway where the movers were carrying the last of the boxes inside. “Malia, you leave them alone and let them work!” he called, turning to gather her discarded clothes off the gravel.

With his attention drawn away, he heard Stiles murmuring, “If you think the house is a lot, just wait until you see the furniture he picked out.” Peter beaned him in the side of the head with one of Malia’s shoes.

The new housekeeper, Mrs. Sanchez, stepped onto the front porch with a picnic basket tucked over her arm. “All ready for you!” she called. Stiles jogged up to fetch it from her.

Peter would always have a soft spot for San Francisco – for the ocean, the atmosphere, the treacherous hills and chaotic clangor of streetcars. They could always visit when they went out to the vineyard, of course. Hale family visits would probably continue to be awkward for a little while, but it wasn’t like they had left on bad terms. The family didn’t like the fallout from his and Stiles’s exit, but they understood.

Colorado would be a new adventure. Instead of hills, they had mountains. Instead of the clamor of city life, they had open air and forests as far as the eyes could see. Malia could be as wild as she wanted, play in the dirt and make friends that didn’t know her as Princess Malia.

They hiked up the side of the plateau on the edge of their property, Stiles and Noah huffing about werewolf lung spans and altitude. Malia, still shifted, sprinted ahead, then circled back to them again and again until she seemed to wear out, and Peter scooped her up against his chest.

The plateau looked out onto a wide valley criss-crossed by streams with one narrow road tracing along the edge of it. An eagle swooped down across it, alighting on the top of a spruce tree. Peter pointed it out to Malia, and she howled softly at it.

She had to shift back to join them for lunch on the picnic blanket. Halfway through her sandwich, she wandered off through the grass, picking flowers and probably looking for bugs.

“Have you been keeping up with the news at all?” Noah asked.

“Absolutely not,” Stiles said with a laugh. He popped a grape in his mouth. “That stuff is officially not our problem anymore.”

Peter lifted a shoulder. “I’m sure Laura will tell us if anything earth-shattering comes up.”

Noah smiled and glanced between the two of them. “You really aren’t curious to know what they’re saying about you leaving?”

“Curious, sure,” Peter conceded, “but I know it won’t make us happier to know. I’m sure they’re calling me a traitor and a drama queen or something of the sort.”

“And I’m a homewrecker,” Stiles added. “Yoko Ono.”

“Yeah, there was always going to be plenty of that,” Noah conceded. “There are a lot of people supporting you, though. Calling out the media for how they treated you.”

Peter expected to feel excited about that, or maybe hopeful. Things could change for the better. He should have felt excited. Instead, he found that he really, truly, didn’t care anymore.

Malia came sprinting back across the clearing, something clasped in her hands. When she got closer, Peter saw a loose tangle of grasses and flowers, woven together into a circle. She held it out to him with a grin. Both teeth around her front top teeth were missing, the right one only just starting to grow in. “I made you a crown!” she declared.

She had vague ideas of what was going on, that her fathers weren’t princes anymore, and she wasn’t a princess, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t _their_ princess. Peter got the sense that she understood more than she let on.

He bowed his head and let her place the crown on his head, then turned to Stiles with his best regal expression. “How do I look?”

Stiles leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Positively royal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This was a fun and fluffy fic to write, and I would really love to hear what you think about it!

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](https://luulapants.tumblr.com/)!


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